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ROBERT  ORANGE 


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Copyright ^    ^89  9>    1900,   hy 
Frederick   A.  Stokes   Company 


Second  Edition. 


CI  A, 


ROBERT  ORANGE, 


f^ 


f  CHAPTER  I. 

One  afternoon  during  the  first  weeks  of  October, 
1869,  while  wind,  dust,  and  rain  were  struggh'ng  each  for 
^  supremacy  in  the  streets,  a  small  yellow  brougham, 
^  swung  in  the  old-fashioned  style  on  cumbersome 
q]  springs  and  attached  to  a  pair  of  fine  greys,  was  stand- 
ing before  the  Earl  of  Garrow's  town  residence  in  St. 
James's  Square.  The  hall  clock  within  that  mansion 
chimed  four,  the  great  doors  were  thrown  open  by 
two  footmen,  and  a  young  lady  wearing  a  mauve  silk 
skirt  deeply  flounced,  a  black  cloth  jacket  embroidered 
in  gold,  and  a  mauve  hat  trimmed  with  plumes — ap- 
peared upon  the  threshold.  She  paused  for  a  moment 
to  admire  the  shrubs  arranged  in  boxes  on  each  window- 
sill,  the  crimson  vines  that  brightened  the  grey  walls  ; 
to  criticise  the  fresh  brown  rosette  under  the  near 
horse's  ear  ;  to  bestow  a  swift  glance  upon  the  harness, 
the  coachman's  livery,  and  the  groom's  boots.  Then 
she  stepped  into  the  carriage  and  gave  her  order — 

"  To  the  Carlton  Club." 

The  groom  climbed  on  to  his  seat,  and  the  horses, 
after  a  brilliant  display  of  their  well-disciplined  mettle, 
suffered  themselves  to  be  driven,  at  an  easy  pace, 
toward  Pall  Mall. 

Lady  Sara-Louise-Tatiana-Valerie  DeTreverell,  only 
child  of  the  ninth  Earl  of  Garrow,  had  been,  since  her 

_._.      »iVl8  ^  ."i.  «  -^    _... 


2  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

mother's  death,  the  mistress  of  his  house  and  his  chief 
companion.  Essentially  a  woman  of  emotions,  she 
was,  nevertheless,  in  appearance  somewhat  dreamy, 
romantic,  even  spiritual.  The  eyes  were  blue,  bright 
as  a  cut  sapphire,  and  shone,  as  it  were,  through  tears. 
Her  mouth,  uneven  in  its  lines,  had  a  scarlet  eloquence 
more  pleasing  than  sculpturesque  severity.  At  the 
moment,  she  wore  no  gloves,  and  her  tapering  fingers 
shared  their  characteristic  with  her  nose,  which  also 
tapered,  with  exquisite  lightness  of  mould,  into  a 
point.  For  colour,  she  had  a  gypsy's  red  and  brown. 
The  string  of  gold  beads  which  she  fastened  habitually 
round  her  throat  showed  well  against  the  warm  tints 
in  her  cheek  ;  her  long  pearl  earrings  caught  in  cer- 
tain lights  the  dark  shadow  of  her  hair — hair  black, 
abundant,  and  elaborately  dressed  in  the  fashion  of  that 
time.  Passionate  yet  calculating,  imperious  yet  sus- 
ceptible of  control,  generous  yet  given  to  suspicion, 
an  egoist  yet  capable  of  self-abandoning  enthusiasm — 
she  represented  a  type  of  feminine  character  often  rec- 
ognised but  rarely  understood. 

On  this  particular  afternoon  in  October  she  had 
some  pressing  matters  on  her  mind.  She  was  con- 
sidering, among  other  things,  an  offer  of  marriage 
which  she  had  received  by  post  two  days  before  from 
a  nobleman  of  great  fortune,  the  Duke  of  Marshire. 
But  Sara  was  ambitious — not  mercenary.  She  wanted 
power.  Power,  unhappily,  was  the  last  thing  one 
could  associate  with  the  estimable  personality  of  the 
suitor  under  deliberation. 

"I  must  tell  papa,"  she  said  to  herself,  "that  it 
would  never  do." 

Here  she  fell  into  a  reverie ;  but  as  her  expression 
changed  from  one  of  annoyance  to  something  of  wist- 
fulness  and  sentimentality,  the  question  of  marriage 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  3 

with  the  Duke  of  Marshire  had  clearly  been  dismissed 
for  that  moment  from  her  heart.  At  intervals  a  shy 
smile  gave  an  almost  childish  tenderness  to  her  face. 
Then,  on  a  sudden,  her  eyelashes  would  droop,  she 
would  start  with  a  sigh,  and,  apparently  caught  by 
some  unwelcome  remembrance,  sink  into  a  humour 
as  melancholy  as  it  was  mysterious.  Quiet  she  sat, 
absorbed  in  her  own  emotions,  heedless  alike  of  the 
streets  through  which  she  was  passing  and  the  many 
acquaintances  who  bowed  as  she  drove  by.  It  was 
her  daily  custom,  when  in  town,  to  call  at  the  Carlton 
Club  for  her  father  and  take  him  for  a  short  drive 
round  the  park  before  his  tea.  To-day  he  was  already 
waiting  on  the  club  steps  as  the  brougham  halted 
before  the  entrance.  He  smiled,  joined  Lady  Sara  at 
once,  and  seating  himself  by  her  side  in  his  usual 
corner,  maintained  his  usual  imperturbable  reserve. 
As  a  rule,  during  these  excursions  he  would  either 
doze,  or  jot  down  ideas  in  his  note-book,  or  hum  one 
of  the  few  songs  he  cared  to  hear  :  "  Go  tell  Augusta, 
gentle  swain,"  "  Revenge,  revenge,  Timotheus  cries," 
and  "  She  wore  a  wreath  of  roses."  This  time,  how- 
ever, he  did  neither  of  these  things,  but  watched  the 
reflection  of  his  daughter's  face  in  the  carriage  window 
before  him.  He  had  white  hair,  a  dyed  moustache 
and  a  small  imperial — also  dyed  the  deepest  black — 
just  under  the  lower  lip.  In  appearance  he  was,  spite 
of  the  false  touches,  good-looking,  sensitive,  and  per- 
haps too  mild.  The  cleft  in  his  rounded  chin  was  the 
sole  mark  of  decision  in  a  countenance  whose  features 
were  curved — wherever  a  curve  was  possible — to  a 
degree  approaching  caricature.  Temples,  eyebrows, 
nostrils,  and  moustache,  all  described  a  series  of  semi- 
circles which,  accentuated  by  a  livid  complexion  and 
curling  hair,  presented  an  effect  somewhat  common- 


4  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

place  and  a  Httle  tiresome.  He  had  spent  his  existence 
among  beings  to  whom  nothing  seemed  natural  which 
did  not  depart  most  earnestly  from  all  that  nature  is 
and  teaches :  he  had  always  endeavoured  to  maintain 
the  ideal  of  a  Christian  gentleman  where,  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  Christianity  was  understood  rather  as  a  good 
manner  than  a  faith,  and  ideals  were  prejudices  of  race 
rather  than  aspirations  of  the  soul.  Well-born,  well- 
bred,  and  moderately  learned,  he  was  not,  and  could 
never  be,  more  than  dull  or  less  than  dignified.  The 
second  son  of  his  father  ;  he  had  spent  the  customary 
years  of  idleness  at  Eton  and  Oxford,  he  had  journeyed 
through  France,  Italy,  and  Spain  ;  contested  unsuccess- 
fully a  seat  in  Hertford,  and  thought  of  reading  for  the 
Bar.  But  at  four-and-thirty  he  became,  through  the 
influence  of  his  mother's  family,  groom-in-waiting  to 
the  Queen — a  post  which  he  held  till  his  elder  brother's 
death,  which  occurred  six  months  later.  At  this 
point  his  Court  career  ceased.  A  weak  heart  and  a 
constitutional  dislike  of  responsibility  assisted  him  in 
his  firm  decision  to  lead  the  life  of  a  country  noble- 
man. He  retired  to  his  estate,  and  remained  there  in 
solitude,  troubling  no  one  except  his  agent,  till  a 
Russian  lady,  whom  he  had  first  met  and  loved  during 
his  early  travels  on  the  Continent,  happened  to  come 
visiting  in  the  neighbourhood.  As  the  daughter  of  a 
Russian  Prince  and  Ambassador,  she  had  considered 
her  rank  superior  to  Lord  Garrow's,  and  therefore  felt 
justified,  as  she  informed  her  relations  after  he  had 
succeeded  to  the  earldom,  in  making  the  first  advance 
toward  their  common  happiness.  The  marriage  was 
soon  arranged ;  the  alliance  proved  successful  if  not 
always  serene  ;  one  child — Sara-Louise-Tatiana- Valerie 
— was  born,  an  event  which  was  followed,  nine  days 
later,  by  the  death  of  the  Countess. 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  5 

Lord  Garrow,  a  man  of  refined  ideas  rather  than 
profound  feelings,  displayed  in  mourning  his  wife's 
loss  the  same  gentle,  dispassionate,  and  courteous  per- 
sistency with  which  he  had  remained  constant  to  his 
first  impression  of  her  charms.  She  had  been  a  beauti- 
ful, high-hearted  girl ;  she  became  a  fascinating  but 
wayward  woman  ;  she  died  a  creature  of  such  mingled 
ferocity  and  sentiment  that,  had  she  not  perished  when 
she  did,  she  must  have  existed  in  misery  under  the 
storms  of  her  own  temperament.  As  Garrow  watched 
his  daughter's  face,  he  may  have  been  touched  to  a 
deeper  chord  than  usual  at  the  sight  of  her  strange 
and  growing  resemblance  to  his  dead  Tatiana.  Did 
she  too  possess — as  her  mother  had  possessed — the 
sweet  but  calamitous  gift  of  loving?  He  himself  had 
not  been  the  object  of  his  wife's  supreme  devotion. 
Before  the  child's  birth  she  had  given  him  an  emerald 
ring  which,  she  declared,  was  all  that  she  valued  on 
earth.  It  was  no  gift  of  his;  it  had  belonged  to  a 
young  attache  to  her  father's  embassy.  Affection  had 
taught  Lord  Garrow  something;  he  asked  no  ques- 
tions ;  the  jewel  was  placed,  by  his  orders,  on  her  dead 
hand  ;  it  was  buried  with  her,  and  with  that  burial  he 
included  any  jealousy  of  her  early  romance.  He  had 
been  sincerely,  wholly  attached  to  her  ;  he  had  been 
proud  of  her  graces  and  accomplishments  ;  he  knew 
her  virtue  and  honoured  her  pure  mind  ;  she  was  the 
one  woman  he  had  ever  wished  to  marry.  He  did  not 
regret,  nay,  it  was  impossible  to  regret,  their  marriage. 
But  she  had  been  ever  an  alien  and  a  stranger.  Each 
had  too  often  considered  the  other's  heart  with  sur- 
prise. True  love  must  rest  on  a  perfect  understand- 
ing ;  at  the  first  lifting  of  the  e3-es  in  wonder  there  is 
a  jar  which  by  and  by  must  make  the  whole  emotion 
restless.     An  unconquerable  curiosity  lay  at  the  very 


6  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

root  of  their  lives.  She  thought  him  English  and 
self-sufficient ;  he  thought  her  foreign  and  a  little 
superstitious.  This  ineffable  criticism  was  constant, 
fretful,  and  ever  nearing  the  climax  of  uttered  reproach. 
Sara  had  inherited  all  the  amazement,  but  she  owned, 
as  well,  its  comprehension.  She  adored  passionately 
the  mother  she  had  never  seen  ;  she  loved  her  father, 
whom  she  knew  by  heart.  After  exchanging  an 
affectionate  glance  with  his  lordship,  she  began  to 
draw  on  her  gloves.     Whilst  buttoning  one  she  said — 

"  Have  you  seen  him  ?  " 

"No,"  he  replied;  "but,  in  any  case,  I  think  he 
would  have  avoided  me  to-day." 

"  Why?" 

"  From  motives  of  delicacy.  Henry  Marshire  is  a 
man  of  the  nicest  feeling.  He  is  never  guilty  of  the 
least  mistake." 

Sara  smiled,  and  so  disguised  a  blush. 

"  I  did  not  mean  Marshire,"  she  said.  "  I  was  think- 
ing then  of  Robert  Orange." 

"  Robert  Orange,"  exclaimed  Lord  Garrow  in  aston- 
ishment. 

"Yes,  dear  papa.  Is  he  not  sometimes  at  the  Carl- 
ton with  Lord  Wight  ?  He  seems  to  me  a  coming 
man  ;  and  so  good-looking.  We  must  really  ask  him 
to  dinner." 

Some  minutes  elapsed  before  the  Earl  could  utter 
any  comment  on  a  suggestion  so  surprising,  and  at 
that  particular  moment  so  inconsequent.  Was  his 
daughter  not  weighing  with  prayer,  he  hoped,  and  cer- 
tainly with  all  her  senses,  the  prospect  of  an  alliance 
with  the  Duke  of  Marshire?  How,  then,  could  she 
pause  in  a  meditation  of  such  vital  interest  to  make 
capricious  remarks  about  a  mere  acquaintance  ? 

"  Does  Marshire  know  him?  "  he  asked  at  last. 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  7 

"  I  hope  so.  He  is  a  remarkable  person.  But  the 
party  is  blind." 

"  My  dear,  the  English  are  an  aristocratic  people. 
They  do  not  forgive  mysterious  blood  and  ungentle 
origins.  While  we  have  our  Howards,  our  Talbots, 
and  our  Poulets — to  say  nothing  of  the  De  Courcys 
and  Cliftons — it  would  surely  seem  excessively  absurd 
to  endure  the  intrusion  of  French  emigres  into  our 
midst." 

"  How  I  hate  the  great  world  ! "  exclaimed  Sara, 
with  vehemence  ;  "  how  I  dislike  the  class  which  ambi- 
tion, wealth,  and  pride  separate  from  the  rest  of 
humanity  !  My  only  happiness  now  is  found  in  soli- 
tude." 

"  Your  mother,  dear  Sara,  had — or  fancied  so — this 
same  desire  to  shun  companionship  and  be  alone. 
Her  delicate  health  after  our  marriage  made  her  fear 
society." 

"  There  are  days  when  it  seems  an  arena  of  wild 
beasts !  " 

"  Nevertheless,  my  darling,  at  your  age  you  must 
learn  to  live  among  your  fellow-creatures." 

"  How  can  I  live  where  I  should  be  afraid  to  die?  " 

"Ought  you  to  give  way  to  these  moods?  Is  it 
not  mistaking  the  imagination  for  the  soul?  Young 
people  do  this,  and  you  are  very  young — but  two-and- 
twenty." 

"  I  am  double-hearted,"  said  Sara  ;  "  and  when  one 
is  double-hearted  the  tongue  must  utter  contradic- 
tions. I  like  my  advantages  while  I  despise  them.  I 
wish  to  be  thought  exclusive,  yet  I  condemn  the  pet- 
tiness of  my  ambition.     And  so  on." 

"  I  fear,"  said  Lord  Garrow  gravely,  "  that  your 
mind  is  disturbed  by  a  question  which  you  must  soon 
— very  soon,  my  dearest  child — answer." 


8  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

"  Papa,  I  cannot." 

"  Surely  you  will  gratify  me  so  far  as  to  take  time 
before  you  object  to  what  might  possibly  be  most 
desirable." 

"  It  may  be  desirable  enough,  but  is  it  right?" 

"  Right,"  repeated  her  father,  with  exasperation. 
"  How  could  it  be  otherwise  than  right  to  marry  a 
man  of  Marshire's  position,  means,  stamp,  and  general 
fitness  ?  You  would  be  in  possession  of  a  station 
where  your  interest  would  be  as  independent  as  your 
spirit.  Nothing  could  have  been  more  brilliant,  or 
flattering,  or  more  cordial  than  his  offer.  I  argue 
against  my  natural  selfishness  for  your  welfare.  I 
don't  wish  to  part  with  you,  but  I  must  consider  your 
future." 

He  spoke  with  energy,  and  Sara  knew,  from  the 
length  and  substance  of  the  speech,  that  the  subject 
had  been  for  some  time  very  near  his  heart.  She  re- 
solved— on  the  instant — not  to  fail  him  ;  but  as  she 
foresaw  his  crowning  satisfaction,  she  permitted  her- 
self the  luxury  of  prolonging  his  suspense. 

"  I  do  not  love  him,"  said  she. 

"  In  marriage  one  does  not  require  an  unconquer- 
able love  but  an  invincible  sympathy." 

"  An  invincible  sympathy  !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  I 
have  had  that  for  certain  friends — for  one  or  two  at 
any  rate.     For  Robert  Orange,  as  an  example." 

"  That  man  again  ?     Why  do  you  dwell  upon  him  ?  " 

"  He  is  interesting,  he  has  force,  and,  as  for  origin, 
do  people  ever  repeat  pleasant  facts  about  a  neigh- 
bour's pedigree?  I  believe  that  his  family  is  every  bit 
as  good  as  ours.  His  second  name  is  de  Haus^e. 
No  one  can  pretend  that  we  are  even  so  good  as  a 
genuine  de  Haus^e.  We  may  make  ourselves  ridic- 
ulous ! " 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  9 

"  Let  mc  entreat  you  to  guard  against  these  in- 
equalities in  your  character.  To-day  I  could  even 
accuse  you  of  levity.  Dearest  Sara,  Marshire  is  hardly 
the  man  to  be  kept  waiting  for  his  reply." 

"  I  am  not  well,"  said  Sara,  almost  in  tears.  "  There 
are  hours  when  I  would  not  give  my  especial  blessings 
for  any  other  earthly  happiness,  and  then,  a  moment 
after,  the  things  which  pleased  me  most  become  vex- 
ations, all  but  intolerable  !  " 

"How  little  importance,  then,  should  we  attach  to 
our  caprices,  when  we  know,  by  experience,  how  short 
is  the  pleasure  and  displeasure  they  can  give,"  was 
the  careful  reply. 

"  Caprices !  "  said  Sara  ;  "  yes,  you  are  right.  My 
mind  gets  weary,  disgusted,  and  dismayed.  But  the 
soul  is  never  bored — never  tired.  Poor  prisoner!  It 
has  so  few  opportunities." 

She  sighed  deeply,  and  her  father  saw,  with  distress, 
the  approach  of  a  sentimental  mood  which  he  de- 
plored as  un-English,  and  feared  as  unmanageable. 

"  What  is  this  languor,  this  inability  to  rouse  my- 
self, to  feel  the  least  interest  in  things  or  people  ?" 
she  continued.  "  I  am  not  ill,  and  yet  I  have  scarcely 
the  strength  to  regret  my  lassitude." 

"  What  does  it  mean  ?  " 

He  put  his  hand  upon  her  jacket  sleeve. 

"  Is  this  warm  enough?"  he  said.  "  The  autumn  is 
treacherous.     You  are  careful,  I  hope." 

She  glanced  out  of  the  window  and  up  at  the  clouds 
which,  grey,  heavy,  and  impenetrable,  moved,  darken- 
ing all  things  as  they  went  across  the  sky. 

"  I  wish  it  would  rain  !  I  like  to  be  out  when  it 
rams ! 

"  A  strange  fancy,"  said  her  father  ;  "  but  tastes, 
even   odd    ones,  give  a  charm    to    life,  whereas   pas- 


10  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

sions — "  he  put  some  stress  upon  the  word  and  re- 
peated it,  "  passions  destroy  it." 

"  Marshire,  at  any  rate,  does  not  seem  to  possess 
either ! " 

"  Well,  a  man  must  begin  at  some  point,  and,  at 
some  point,  he  must  change.  He  admires  and  re- 
spects you,  my  darling,  so  we  may  hardly  quarrel  with 
his  judgment." 

Sara  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  turned  her  glance 
away  from  the  few  carriages  filled  with  invalids  or 
elderly  women  which  were  still  lingering  in  the  Row. 

"  Some  people,"  said  she,  "  are  driven  by  their  pas- 
sions, others,  the  smaller  number,  by  their  virtues. 
Marshire  has  asked  me  to  marry  him  because  it  is  his 
duty  to  choose  a  wife  from  his  own  circle.  I  have  no 
illusions  in  the  matter.  Nor,  I  fancy,  has  he.  We 
have  talked,  of  course,  of  love  and  Platonism,  till  both 
love  and  Platonism  became  a  weariness  !  " 

"  Very  far  indeed  am  I  from  thinking  you  just.  I 
have  had  an  extremely  kind  note  from  the  Duchess." 

"  An  old  tyrant !  She  wants  a  daughter-in-law 
who  will  play  piquet  with  her  in  the  evenings,  and 
feed  her  peacocks  in  the  morning.  She  is  tired  of 
poor  Miss  Wilmington.     An  old  tyrant !  " 

"  She  hopes  to  hear  soon  when  the  marriage  is  to 
take  place.  I  wish  I  could  tell  her  the  day.  I  do  so 
long  to  have  it  fixed." 

"  Dear  papa,"  she  said,  with  a  charming  smile,  "you 
are  anxious,  I  see,  to  be  rid  of  me.  I  will  write  him 
to-night." 

"  And  to  what  effect  ?  " 

"  The  wisest." 

"  That  means  the  happiest,  too  ? "  he  asked  with 
anxiety. 

"  For  you  and  him,  I  hope.     As  for    me — am  I  a 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  ii 

woman  who  could,  by  any  chance,  be  both  happy  and 
wise  at  the  same  moment?" 

Her  existence  was  very  solitary.  The  flippancy  of 
the  lives  around  her,  the  inanity  of  her  relatives'  pur- 
suits, their  heedlessness  of  those  inner  qualities  which 
make  the  real — indeed,  the  only  considerable  differ- 
ence between  man  and  man — could  but  fret,  and  mor- 
tify, and  abash  a  heart  which,  in  the  absence  of  any 
religious  faith,  had,  at  any  rate,  the  need  of  it.  Her 
father,  who  entertained  clear  views  of  "  the  right 
thing"  and  "the  wrong  thing"  in  social  ethics,  was 
still  too  rigid  a  formalist  in  the  exposition  of  his  the- 
ories to  reach  an  intelligence  with  whom  the  desire  of 
virtues  would  have  to  come  as  a  passion — inspiring 
and  inspired,  or  else  be  utterly  repudiated.  Utilitari- 
anism, and  the  greatest  happiness  of  the  greatest  num- 
ber, comfortable  domestic  axioms,  little  schemes  for 
the  elevation  of  the  masses  by  the  classes,  had,  on 
their  logical  basis,  no  attraction  for  this  sceptical,  way- 
ward girl.  To  be  merely  useful  was,  in  her  eyes,  to 
make  oneself  meddlesome  and  absurd.  The  object  of 
existence  was  to  be  heroic  or  nothing.  She  could  im- 
agine herself  a  Poor  Clare  :  she  could  not  imagine  her- 
self as  a  great  young  lady  dividing  her  hours  judi- 
ciously between  district  visiting  and  the  ball-room,  be- 
tween the  conquest  of  eligible  bachelors  and  the 
salvation  of  vulgar  souls.  Marshire,  she  knew,  had 
sisters  and  cousins  who  did  these  things  and  were  con- 
sidered patterns.  No  wonder,  then,  that  she  turned 
pale  and  became  fretful  at  the  prospect  of  her  views 
clashing  inevitably  with  his. 

"  I  cannot  be  wise  and  happy  at  the  same  moment," 
she  repeated. 

At  that  instant  the  carriage,  which  was  then  rolling 
toward   Hyde   Park  Corner,  came  to  an  abrupt  stand- 


12  ROBERT  ORANGE. 


still,  and,  on  looking  out,  Lord  Garrow  observed  that 
the  coachman  had  halted  in  obedience  to  a  signal  from 
a  gentleman  who  was  galloping,  at  a  hard  pace,  after 
their  brougham. 

"  It  must  be  Reckage,"  said  the  Earl ;  "  I  never 
knew  a  man  so  fond  of  riding  who  rode  so  ill." 

"  What,  I  wonder,  does  he  want  now  }  "  said  Sara, 
flushing  a  little.  "  I  didn't  know  that  he  was  in 
town." 

By  that  time  the  pursuer,  a  handsome  man  with  an 
auburn  beard  and  very  fine  blue  eyes,  had  reached 
them. 

"  This,"  he  shouted,  "  is  a  rushing  beast  of  a  horse  .  " 
but,  before  he  could  explain  his  errand,  the  hunter, 
who  was  nearly  quite  thoroughbred  and  a  magnificent 
animal,  dashed  on,  evidently  determined  to  gain,  with- 
out delay,  some  favourite  destination. 

"  Extraordinary  !  "  said  Lord  Garrow.  "  Extraor- 
dinary ! " 

"  But  so  like  him,"  observed  his  daughter. 

"  And  he  has  made  us  late  for  tea.  What  a  stupid 
fellow  !  " 

It  was  exactly  five  minutes  past  five  when  they 
reached  St.  James's  Square.  The  sun,  a  globe,  set  in 
thin  lines  of  yellow  light,  shone  out  above  the  trees, 
which  were  dull  but  not  yet  leafless.  Grey  and  sul- 
phurous and  gold-edged  clouds  floated  in  masses  on  the 
blue  sky.  It  had  been  a  day  of  changes — yet  it  seemed 
to  Sara,  whose  own  moods  had  been  as  various,  the 
ordinary  passing  away  of  time. 

"  Upon  my  word,"  said  his  lordship,  "  it  is  too  bad  ! 
They  may  say  what  they  please  about  Reckage,  but  I 
call  him  a  spooney.  That  horse  was  a  noble  horse — ■ 
a  most  superior  horse.  He  couldn't  manage  him.  I 
wish  he  would  sell  him." 


ROBERT  ORANGE  13 

"  He  would  never  do  anything  so  much  to  his  own 
advantage,"  was  the  dry  response.  "  Poor  Reckage  is  a 
brilliant  fool — he's  selfish,  and  therefore  he  miscalcu- 
lates." 

Sara  was  now  talking  mechanically — as  she  often  did 
when  she  was  with  those  whom  she  loved  or  liked,  but 
from  whom  she  was  separated  in  every  thought,  interest, 
and  emotion.  The  lassitude  of  which  she  had  com- 
plained at  the  beginning  of  their  drive  returned  upon 
her.  Sighing  heavily,  she  entered  the  house  and 
mounted  the  long  staircase  to  the  drawing-room,  where 
the  tea-table  was  already  spread,  the  flame  quivering 
under  the  kettle,  the  deep  pink  china  laid  out  on  a 
silver  tray.  But  the  homeliness  of  the  scene  and  its 
familiarity  had  no  power  to  soothe  that  aching,  dis- 
tracted heart.  Had  she  been  a  man,  she  thought,  she 
might  have  sought  her  refuge  in  ceaseless  work,  in 
great  ambitions,  in  achievements.  This  eternal  tea- 
pouring  and  word-mincing,  this  business  of  forced 
laughter  and  garlanded  conversation  was  more  than  she 
could  endure.  A  low  cry  of  impatience,  too  long  and 
also  too  loosely  imprisoned,  escaped  from  her  lips. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  asked  Lord  Garrow,  who 
was  following  close  upon  her  heels. 

"  Life,"  she  said,  "  life  !  That  is  all  that  ever  does 
matter." 

"  Ain't  you  happy  ?  " 

"  No,  but  I  have  it  in  me  to  be  happy — an  appalling 
capability.  Let  us  say  no  more  about  it.  I  must  join 
myself  to  eternity,  and  so  find  rest." 

"  Well,"  said  her  father,  who  now  felt  that  he  had 
a  right  to  complain,  "  my  poor  uncle  used  to  say,  if 
women  deserved  happiness  they  would  bear  it  better. 
Few  of  them  bear  it  well — and  this  is  a  fact  I  have 
often  brought  before  me." 


14  ROBERT  ORANGE. 


CHAPTER  II. 

When  Sara  had  prepared  Lord  Garrow's  tea  and  cut 
the  leaves  of  the  Revue  des  Deux  Mondes,  which  he 
invariably  read  until  he  dressed  for  dinner,  she  stole 
away  to  the  further  room,  where  she  could  play  the 
piano,  write  letters,  muse  over  novels,  or  indulge  in 
reverie  without  fear  of  interruption.  But  as  she  en- 
tered it  that  afternoon  its  air  of  peace  seemed  the 
bleakness  of  desolation.  A  terrible  and  afiflicting  grief 
swept,  like  an  icy  breeze,  through  her  heart,  and, 
whether  from  actual  physical  pain  or  the  excitement  of 
the  last  few  hours,  tears  started  to  her  eyes,  her  cheeks 
flushed,  and  she  fell  to  passionate  weeping.  The  smil- 
ing Nymphs  painted  on  the  ceiling  above  her  head  and 
the  rose  leaves  they  were  for  ever  scattering  to  the 
dancing  Hours — a  charming  group  and  considered  very 
cheerful — could  not  relieve  her  woe.  She  cried  long 
and  bitterly,  and  was  on  the  verge  of  hysterics  when 
the  door  opened  and  her  most  intimate  woman  friend, 
the  Viscountess  Fitz  Rewes,  was  announced.  This 
bewitching  creature — who  was  a  widow  with  two  long 
flaxen  curls,  a  sweet  figure,  and  the  smile  of  an  angel — 
embraced  her  dear,  dear  Sara  with  genuine  affection, 
and  pretended  not  to  see  her  swollen  eyelids.  Sara 
possessed  for  Pens^e  Fitz  Rewes  the  fascination  of  a 
desperate  nature  for  a  meek  one.  The  audacity, 
brilliancy,  and  recklessness  of  the  younger  woman 
at  once  stimulated  and  established  the  other's  gentle 
piety. 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  15 

They  talked  for  fifteen  minutes  about  the  autumn 
visits  they  had  paid,  the  visits  they  would  have  to  pay, 
and  the  visits  that  nothing  in  this  world  would  induce 
them  to  pay. 

"  I  have  been  at  home — at  Catesby — most  of  the 
time,"  said  Pensee  ;  "a  very  quiet,  happyish  time,  on 
the  whole.  I  had  a  few  people  down,  but  I  saw  a 
great  deal  of  a  particularly  nice  person.  She  is  a 
foreigner — an  archduchess  really.  Her  father  made  a 
morganatic  marriage.  I  am  so  glad  they  don't  have 
morganatic  marriages  in  England.  I  don't  like  to  be 
uncharitable,  but  they  seem,  in  a  way,  so  improper. 
Madame  de  Parflete  is  a  nice  person.  Her  husband 
was  a  dreadful  man." 

"  What  did  he  do  ?  "  said  Sara,  who  was  a  little  absent. 

"  Oh,  all  kinds  of  things.  He  committed  suicide  in 
the  end.  And  now — she  is  going  to  marry  a  friend  of 
mine." 

"  Who  is  he  ?  " 

"  I  never  told  you  about  him  before,"  said  Pensee, 
"  but  I  am  so  miserable  to-day  that  you  may  as  well 
know.  He  was  a  sort  of  brother,  yet  much  more. 
One  didn't  meet  him  often  in  our  set,  because  he 
didn't  and  doesn't  care  about  it.  Life,  however,  threw 
us  together." 

She  covered  her  wan  face  with  her  hands. 

"  How  am  I  to  give  him  up  ?  "  she  asked.  "  How 
shall  I  bear  it  ?  I  get  so  unhappy.  I  asked  my  little 
boy  the  other  day  what  he  did  when  I  went  away  from 
home.  He  said — '  I  gather  chestnuts  and  feel  lonely.' 
And  I  asked  my  little  girl  what  she  did,  and  she  said 
— '  I  cry  till  you  come  back  again.'  There's  the 
difference  between  men  and  women.  I  am  like  my 
poor  Lilian.  You,  Sara,  if  you  could  be  wretched, 
would  be  more  like  the  boy." 


i6  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  "  said  Sara. 

"  That  wonderful  passage  in  the  New  Testament — 
I  often  remember  it  !  After  all  the  agony  and  sepa- 
ration were  over,  Simon  Peter  said  to  his  disciples, 
I  go  a  fishing.  He  went  back  to  the  work  he  was 
doing  when  our  Lord  first  called  him.    What  courage  !  " 

"  Go  on,"  said  Sara,  "  go  on  !  " 

"  Of  course,  my  heart  has  been  taking  an  undue 
complacency  in  the  creature,  and  this  seldom  fails  to 
injure.  I  have  a  wish  to  be  free  from  distress,  and 
enjoy  life.  As  if  we  were  born  to  be  happy  !  No, 
this  world  is  a  school  to  discipline  souls  and  fit  them 
for  the  other.     I  must  forget  my  friend." 

"  Nonsense ! " 

"  It  will  be  very  hard.  I  took  such  an  interest  in 
his  career.  If  I  didn't  mention  him  to  you,  or  to  other 
people,  I  mentioned  him  often  to  God.  And  now — it 
is  somewhat  awkward." 

"  You  little  goose,"  said  Sara,  "  you  have  a  heart  of 
crystal.     Nothing  could  be  awkward  for  you." 

"  My  heart,"  said  Pensee,  with  a  touch  of  resent- 
ment, "  is  just  as  dangerous  and  wicked  as  any  othc; 
heart  !  You  misunderstand  me  wilfully.  I  like  prayer 
at  all  times,  because  it  is  a  help  and  because  jt  lifts 
one  out  of  the  world.  Oh,  when  shall  every  thought 
be  brought  into  captivity  ?" 

"  Listen  !  "  said  Sara,  "  listen  !  If  there  is  an  attrac- 
tiveness in  human  beings  so  lovely  that  it  could  call 
your  Almighty  God  Himself  from  heaven  to  dwell 
among  them  and  to  die  most  cruelly  for  their  sakes,  is 
it  to  be  expected  that  they  will  not — and  who  will 
dare  say  that  they  should  not  ? — as  mortals  them- 
selves, discover  qualities  in  each  other  which  draw  out 
the  deepest  affection  ?  I  have  no  patience  with  your 
religion — none." 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  17 

"You  are  most  unkind,  and  I  won't  tell  you  any 
more,"  replied  Pensee,  who  looked,  however,  not  un- 
grateful for  Sara's  view  of  the  situation. 

''  Let  me  tell  you  something  about  me,"  said  her 
friend  fiercely.  "  I  never  say  my  prayers,  because  I 
cannot  say  them,  but  I  love  somebody,  too.  When- 
ever I  hear  Ills  name  I  could  faint.  When  I  see  him  I 
could  sink  into  the  ground.  At  the  sight  of  his  hand- 
writing I  grow  cold  from  head  to  foot,  I  tremble,  my 
heart  aches  so  tliat  it  seems  breaking  in  two.  I  long 
to  be  with  him,  )'ct  when  I  am  with  him  I  have 
nothing  to  sr.y.  I  have  to  escape  and  be  miserable  all 
alone.  He  is  my  thought  all  day  :  the  last  before  I 
sleep,  the  first  when  I  awake.  I  could  cry  and  cry 
and  cry.  I  try  to  read,  and  I  remember  not  a  word. 
I  like  playing  best,  for  then  I  can  almost  imagine  that 
he  is  listening.  But  when  I  stop  playing  and  look 
round,  I  find  myself  in  an  emptj''  room.  It  is  awful. 
I  call  his  name  ;  no  one  answers.  I  whisper  it ;  still 
no  answer.  I  throw  myself  on  the  ground,  and  I  say, 
'  Think  of  me  !  think  of  me  !  you  shall,  you  must,  you 
do  think  of  me  !  '  It  is  great  torture  and  a  great 
despair.  Perhaps  it  is  a  madness  too.  But  it  is  my 
way  of  loving.  I  want  to  live  while  I  live.  If  I  knew 
for  certain  that  he  loved  me — me  only,  the  joy,  I 
think,  would  kill  me.  Love !  Do  you  know,  poor 
little  angel,  what  it  means?     Sometimes  it  is  a  curse," 

Pensee,  before  this  torrent,  was  shaking  like  some 
small  flower  in  a  violent  gale. 

"  You  say  things,  Sara,  that  no  one  says — things 
that  one  ought  not  to  say.  You  must  be  quieter. 
You  won't  be  happy  when  you  are  married  if  you 
begin  with  so  much  feeling  !  " 

"  I  am  not  going  to  marry  that  one,"  said  Sara  bit- 
terly.    "  I  am  going  to  marry  Marshire." 


i8  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

Lady  Fitz  Revves  had  too  delicate  a  face  to  contain 
any  expression  of  the  alarm  and  horror  she  felt  at  this 
statement.  She  frowned,  bit  her  lips,  and  sank  back 
in  her  chair.  What  stroke  of  fate,  she  wondered,  had 
overtaken  the  poor  girl  ?  Was  she  sane  ?  Was  she 
herself?  Pensee  found  some  relief  in  the  thought 
that  Sara  was  not  herself — a  state  into  which  most 
people  are  presumed  to  fall  whenever,  from  stress  of 
emotion,  they  become  either  strictly  candid  or  per- 
fectly natural. 

"  It  is  a  fancy.  Fancies  are  in  my  blood,"  said 
Sara;  "  you  need  not  be  anxious." 

"  But — but  what  feeling  have  you  for  Marshire  ?  " 
murmured  Pensee. 

"  I    have    a   faint    inclination    not    to    dislike    him 

utterly.     And  I  will  be  a  good  wife  to  him.     If  I  say 

so,  I  shall  keep  my  word.     You  may  be  sure  of  that." 

"  I   could   never  doubt  your  honour,  Sara.     Is  the 

other  man  quite,  quite  out  of  the  question  ?  " 

"  Quite." 

"  But  perhaps  he  does  love  you  ?  " 
"  Oh,  no,  he  doesn't.     He  may  think  me  picturesque 
and  rather  entertaining.     It  never  went  deeper  than 
that.     I  saw  at  once  that  his   mind  was  fixed  on  some 
other  woman." 

"  I  suppose  one  can  always  tell  when  a  man's  affec- 
tions are  really  engaged,"  said  Pensee,  with  a  sigh. 

"  Yes,  beyond  any  doubt.  You  feel  that  they  are 
comparing  you  at  every  point,  in  a  silent,  cold-blooded 
way,  to  the  bright  particular  star.  I  envy  you,  Pensee  ; 
you,  at  least,  were  desperately  loved  by  Lionel.  But 
I — never,  never  was  loved — except  once." 
"  Who  was  he  ?  " 

"  He  was  a  Russian,  very  good-looking,  and  a  genius. 
But   oh,    I    wasn't   old    enough    to    understand    him. 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  -    19 

When  he  died,  I  cried  for  half  a  day  and  seven  nights. 
And  after  that,  not  a  tear.  You  see,  I  didn't  under- 
stand myself  either." 

"  Do  I  know  this  other  one  .  .  .  the  one,  now?" 

"  I  won't  tell  you  his  name.  Perhaps,  another  time, 
when  we  are  all  very  old  .  .  .  and  he  is  dead  ...  or 
I  am  dying  .   .   ." 

"  Oh,  don't  say  that !  "  exclaimed  Pens^e,  "  don't  say 
that  !     You  are  making  a  lot  of  misery  for  yourself." 

"  Not  at  all.  I  am  making  the  most  of  my  one  sav- 
ing grace.  There  is  nothing  very  nice  about  me — ex- 
cept that.  And  he  is  a  man.  The  only  real  one 
among  all  our  friends — the  only  one  for  whom  I  have 
the  least  respect.  If  any  woman  had  his  love — how 
sure,  how  happy  she  could  be !  I  could  work,  and 
starve,  and  lay  down  my  life  for  a  man  like  that.  If 
he  had  loved  me,  I  think  I  could  have  been  almost  a 
good  woman — a  downright  good  one — a  Saint  Eliza- 
beth   of    Hungary.     But  you  see  that  wasn't  to  be. 

And  so  I  am  just  this "     She  looked  in  the  glass 

and  pointed  a  white  finger,  loaded  with  rings  of  black 
pearls,  at  her  reflection.  "  I  am  just  this — a  vain,  idle 
fool  like  all  the  rest — except  you,  poor  darling." 

"  Wh}^  don't  you  keep  up  your  music  ? — your  won- 
derful playing  ?  Every  one  says  it  is  so  wonderful. 
That's  a  great  outlet  for  emotion.  And  your  lan- 
guages— why  not  work  an  hour  a  day  each  at  Italian, 
Spanish,  German,  and  French  ?  That  would  kill  four 
hours  of  the  day  straight  off !  " 

"  Bah  !  "  said  Sara,  "  I  cannot  play — unless  there  is 
some  one  to  play  for.  As  for  languages — I  cannot  talk 
alone.  And  as  for  reading — I  cannot  find  all  my  world 
between  the  covers  of  a  book." 

"  But  live  for  others,  dear  Sara." 

"  I  want  to  live  for  myself.     I  have  one  inseparable 


20  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

companion — that  is  myself.  I  want  to  suffer  my  own 
sufferings,  and  enjoy  my  own  enjoyments.  This  liv- 
ing for  others  is  absurd.  I  hate  second-hand  emotions. 
They  are  stale  and  dull.  But,  Pensee,  you  haven't  told 
me  the  name  of  your  friend." 

"  I  thought  I  had,"  said  Pens6e,  simply  ;  "  you  will 
see  it  in  the  marriage  notice  the  day  after  to-morrow. 
It  is  Robert  Orange." 

Sara  stared  for  a  moment.  Then  the  string  of  gold 
beads  which  she  wore  round  her  throat  suddenly  broke, 
and  the  shining  ornaments  fell  all  about  her  to  the 
floor. 

"  Dear  me  !  "  said  Sara,  kneeling  down  with  a  ghastly 
laugh.  Pensee  knelt  too,  and  they '  gathered  the 
scattered  necklace  between  them.  "  Dear  me  !  I  was 
never  more  surprised — never,  and  yet  I  cannot  think 
why  I  am  surprised.  He  is  very  handsome.  Any 
woman  would  like  him." 

"  I  wonder,"  said  Pensee,  full  of  thoughts. 

Sara  proceeded  to  count  her  beads  lest  one  should 
be  missing.  But  they  were  all  there,  and  she  tied 
them  up  in  her  handkerchief. 

"  Pensee,"  she  said  presently,  "  I  will  tell  his  name 
after  all,  because  you  have  been  so  frank  with  me. 
The  one  I  .  .  .  love  is  Beauclerk  Reckage."  As  she 
uttered  this  lie,  she  cast  down  her  eyes  and  blushed  to 
the  very  heart. 

"  Beauclerk  !  "  exclaimed  Pensee,  in  amazement. 
"  Then  there  is  some  hope  after  all  !  There  is — there 
must  be  !  Beauclerk  !  He  is  engaged  to  Agnes  Caril- 
lon of  course.     But  all  the  same  .  .  ." 

The  conversation  flagged.  Lord  Garrow,  who  had 
heard  a  distant  murmuring  but  not  their  words,  now, 
as  their  animation  failed,  came  in. 

*'  My  little  girl,"  said  he,  "  has  been  moping.     I  am 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  21 

very  glad  that  you  called  .  .  .  very  glad  indeed.  And 
Sara,  my  darling  .  .  ." 

"  Yes,  papa." 

"  Have  you  asked  Pens6e  the  name  of  that  extremely 
pretty  song  she  sang  for  us  when  we  all  dined  to- 
gether at  Lord  Wight's?  You  remember  the  even- 
ing? 

But  Sara,  with  a  wail,  fled  away.  Pensee  caught  a 
glimpse  of  her  white,  agonised  countenance  as  she 
rushed  past  them,  moaning  to  her  own  room. 

"  This  is  dreadful,"  said  Lord  Garrow,  horribly  an- 
noyed— "  dreadful  !  " 

"  It  is  indeed,"  replied  Lady  Fitz  Rewes  gravely. 
"  I  suppose  .  .  ." 

She  wanted  to  say  that  she  hoped  the  Marshire-de 
Treverell  alliance  was  still  undecided.  But  something 
in  his  lordship's  air — a  hardness  she  had  never  thought 
to  see  in  his  regard — forbade  any  reference  to  the  sub- 
ject. He  conducted  her  to  her  carriage,  wished  her 
'*  Good-bye"  in  his  Court  manner,  and  led  her  to  un- 
derstand, by  an  unmistakable  glance,  that  a  certain 
marriage  which  had  been  arranged  would,  inasmuch  as 
it  was  entirely  agreeable  to  the  will  of  Providence,  take 
place. 


22  ROBERT  ORANGE. 


CHAPTER  III. 

Lord  Reckage,  in  the  meantime,  had  not  been  able 
to  draw  rein  until  he  reached  Grafton  Street,  where 
the  hunter,  of  its  own  will,  stopped  short  at  a  door, 
half  glass  and  half  mahogany,  before  which  a  groom 
stood  watching,  evidently  with  some  suspense,  for  their 
approach.  At  the  first  sight  of  the  animal  and  its 
rider,  he  hastened  forward,  and,  seizing  the  bridle, 
assisted  his  master  to  dismount.  Once  on  the  ground, 
the  young  man  satisfied  his  spleen  by  hitting  the  horse 
several  vicious  cuts  with  his  whip.  Then  he  informed 
the  servant  that  it  was  his  intention  to  walk  home, 
and,  with  an  ominous  scowl,  watched  the  "  rushing 
beast  "  led  from  his  sight.  No  one — except  himself — 
was  permitted  to  occupy  that  saddle. 

The  house  which  he  now  entered  had  been  the  town 
mansion  for  three  generations  of  the  Hampshires,  but, 
despised  by  its  then  owner,  whose  young  duchess 
wanted  an  Italian  villa  on  Piccadilly,  or  a  French 
chateau  in  Park  Lane,  the  lease  had  been  sold  to  a 
syndicate  of  rising  politicians  who  formed  a  small  or- 
ganisation known,  in  those  days,  as  the  Mirafloreans. 

"  The  little  order,"  we  read  in  the  Hon.  Hercy 
Berenville's  Memoirs,  a  malicious  work  printed  for  pri- 
vate circulation  only — "  the  little  order  first  came  into 
notice  under  the  name  of  the  '  Bond  of  Association,' 
a  High  Church  society  founded  by  my  brother.  Lord 
Reckage.  He  formed  his  executive  committee,  how- 
ever,   on    timorous   and    unexpected    lines.     He   had 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  23 

tried  to  please  the  spiteful  rather  than  the  loyal.  The 
loyal,  he  urged,  were  always  forbearing,  but  the  spite- 
ful needed  every  attention.  He  disappointed  alike 
the  warmest  and  the  most  selfish  among  his  supporters. 
True  to  his  policy,  he  made  desperate  attempts  to 
win  over  some  vindictive  men  from  among  the  Radi- 
cals, and,  finally,  in  a  fit  of  nervousness,  declared,  after 
five  months  of  fruitful  folly,  his  determination  to  re- 
organise the  whole  league  on  a  strictly  non-sectarian 
basis.  He  described  himself  as  a  moral  philosopher. 
Once  more  he  became  a  figure  of  interest,  again  he 
raised  the  standard,  again  he  attracted  a  small  com- 
pany of  enthusiasts,  again  it  was  expected  that 
God's  enemies  would  be  scattered.  He  invited  his 
former  secretary,  a  Roman  Catholic,  to  join  the  new 
society,  but  he  made  it  clear  that  Orange,  a  man  of 
real  distinction,  was  in  no  sense  a  prominent  mem- 
ber. The  precise  dogmata  of  Mirafloreanism — a  nick- 
name given,  I  believe,  in  ironic  sympathy  by  Mr. 
Disraeli — were  undefined,  but  the  term  gradually  be- 
came associated  with  those  ideals  of  conduct,  govern- 
ment, and  Art  which  poets  imagine,  heroes  realise,  and 
the  ignorant  destroy.  Men  of  all,  sundry,  and  oppos- 
ing beliefs  presumed  to  its  credentials.  Some,  because 
the  club  appeared  to  flourish,  many  because  it  was  not 
yet  overcrowded,  and  a  few  because  they  were  in  per- 
fect agreement  with  the  varying  opinions  of  its  ulti- 
mate presiding  genius,  Disraeli  himself.  They  worked 
quietly,  not  in  the  House  of  Commons,  but  outside  it, 
delivering  lectures,  writing  books,  starting  newspapers, 
holding  meetings,  and  enlisting  the  sympathies  of  rich, 
idle,  ambitious,  or  titled  women.  There  seemed  no 
end  or  limit  to  the  variety  of  their  interests,  their 
methods  of  labour,  or  their  conceit.  The  club — 
judged  by  the  leonine  measure  of  success — as  a  club 


24  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

did  little  for  learning  or  literary  men.  It  became  a 
mere  meeting-house  for  dining  and  drinking,  but  it 
promoted  cordiality  among  the  leading  members  of 
the  young  Tory  party,  and  brought  persons  together 
who  could  not,  in  the  ordinary  way  of  life,  have  met 
each  other  at  all.  Although  the  more  gaudy  and  best 
known  among  them  came  from  the  first  second-rate 
families  in  England,  the  rank  and  file  were  formed 
mainly  by  young  men  of  good  estate  and  breeding — 
the  sons  of  clergy,  country  squires,  or  merchants,  all 
sprung  from  that  class  which  is  called  Middle,  because 
it  represents  civilised  society  neither  in  its  rough 
beginnings  nor  in  its  tawdry  decay." 

Berenville's  remarks,  it  will  be  plainly  seen,  antici- 
pate our  history  a  little,  for,  at  the  time  of  which  we 
write,  the  Bond  of  Association  was  still  maintaining  a 
sickly  existence  on  its  original  programme.  Orange 
had  not  yet  been  invited  to  join  it,  nor  had  Lord 
Reckage  declared  himself  a  moral  philosopher. 

On  this  particular  afternoon  his  lordship  entered, 
from  the  street,  a  narrow  vestibule,  the  red  walls  of 
which  were  lit  up  by  wax  candles  set  at  either  end  in 
ponderous  bronze  chandeliers.  From  this  he  passed 
into  a  square  inner  hall  paved  with  marble  and  fur- 
nished by  carved  seats  which  had  once  belonged  to 
the  choir  of  an  ancient  chapel  in  Northumberland. 
Here  he  paused,  for  his  attention  was  immediately 
arrested  by  a  small  group  of  four  or  five  individuals 
who  were  talking  with  great  earnestness  at  the  foot 
of  the  oak  staircase.  Not  that  this  was,  in  itself,  an 
unusual  event,  for  ever  since  a  memorable  day  when 
the  Earl  of  Bampton  and  the  young  Archdeacon  of 
Soham,  feeling  warm,  had  ordered  their  tea  to  be 
served  in  that  part  of  the  building,  it  had  been  the 
fashion  for  distinguished  members  to  assemble  there 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  25 

/dispersing  themselves  in  careless  profusion  among  the 
statues  of  departed  ecclesiastics  or  reclining  pleasantly 
on  the  blue  velvet  divan  which  occupied  the  centre  of 
the  floor. 

Foremost  in  the  little  company  on  this  occasion 
stood  Sir  Edward  Ullweather  and  Nigel  Bradwyn, 
both  private  secretaries,  and  each  secretly  convinced 
that  his  peculiar  powers  would  have  found  brilliant, 
volcanic  opportunities  of  demonstration  in  the  other's 
more  promising  berth.  Ullweather,  whose  life  had 
been  devoted  to  the  study  of  agricultural  problems, 
was  subordinate  to  the  Secretary  of  State  for  War. 
Bradwyn,  on  the  other  hand,  who  had  planted  his  soul 
in  the  East,  was  now  learning  what  he  could,  at  the 
nation's  expense,  of  the  nation's  domestic  policy. 
Demoralised  by  disappointment,  and  made  cynical  by 
toiling  over  interests  for  which  they  had,  at  best,  but 
a  forced  regard,  little  remained  in  their  breasts  but  a 
sore  determination  to  make  the  best  of  an  abiding 
discontent.  In  joining  Lord  Reckage's  Committee, 
they  found  themselves  again,  as  they  believed,  in  a 
false  position.  The  second-rate  mind,  whether  repre- 
sented in  a. person  or  by  a  council,  shrinks  from  the 
adoption  of  simple  measures,  and  invariably  seeks  to 
make  itself  conspicuous  by  so  placing  others  as  to 
make  them  appear  unnecessary.  The  special  genius 
of  Lord  Reckage  was  shown,  perhaps,  in  his  abilities 
in  this  direction,  and,  while  he  missed  no  opportunity 
of  engaging  men  of  proved  capabilities  for  his  service, 
his  jealousy  drove  him  so  to  employ  them  that  they 
were  never  permitted  to  do  their  best  either  for  him 
or  for  themselves.  This  policy  carried  in  itself  the 
sting  for  its  own  destruction. 

Not  far  from  Ullweather  and  Bradwyn,  Randall 
Hatchett,  the   youngest    member  of   the   Executive, 


26  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

lounged  against  a  pillar.  Proud  of  a  distinction  which 
he  dared  not  comprehend  (for  a  commercial  shrewd- 
ness made  him  suspect  that  he  owed  his  position  less 
to  merit  than  to  the  subtle  promises  conveyed  by  a 
weak  chin),  this  distinguished  person  tried  to  look  the 
secrets  which  his  colleagues  had  never  permitted  him 
to  learn.  In  moody  weariness  he  would  sometimes 
condescend  to  the  company  of  his  subordinates  on  the 
General  Committee  and,  while  listening  to  their  irre- 
sponsible prattle,  he  would  seem  to  forget  the  onerous 
public  interests  the  absolute  neglect  of  which  was  his 
chief  duty  at  the  Council  board. 

Near  this  gentleman  were  two  others,  Hartley  Pen- 
borough,  the  editor  of  The  Sentinel,  and  the  Hon. 
Charles  Aumerle,  whose  guest  he  was. 

As  Lord  Reckage  appeared  and  showed  some  inten- 
tion of  joining  in  the  conversation,  they  appeared  by 
a  silent  and  common  consent  to  ignore  his  approach. 
He  turned  to  the  hall  porter,  gave  him  some  instruc- 
tions in  a  low  voice  and  passed  on,  livid  with  annoy- 
ance, to  the  library  beyond. 

"Hullo!"  exclaimed  Aumerle,  "that  was  Reck- 
age." 

"I  know  it,"  said  Randall  Hatchett. 

"  Why  didn't  you  speak  to  him  ?  "  asked  Aumerle. 

"  Because,"  said  Bradwyn,  "  our  good  Hatchett  is 
not  so  sure  of  himself  that  he  can  afford  to  be  civil 
even  to  a  President  out  of  fashion !  " 

No  one  smiled  except  Hatchett  himself,  because 
each  one  felt  it  was  unwise  to  encourage  Bradwyn's 
peculiar  humour. 

"  I  would  have  spoken  to  Reckage,"  said  Ullweather, 
with  a  superior  air,  "  but  I  have  never  felt  the  same 
toward  him  since  he  threw  over  Orange  at  the  time  of 
his  election." 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  37 

"And  several  other  old  friends  more  recently!" 
observed  the  injudicious  Bradwyn. 

"I  don't  speak  of  myself,"  said  Ullweather,  "but 
Orange  was  unusually  devoted  to  the  fellow  ;  and  all  I 
wish  to  make  clear  is*  this,  that  when  Reckage  ever 
said  or  did  the  right  thing  in  times  past,  the  credit 
was  solely  due  to  Orange,  He  weeded  prophecy  from 
his  speeches,  and  rudeness  from  his  jokes.  Great 
services,  I  assure  you  !  " 

"True,"  said  Randall  Hatchett,  "  for  there  is  nothing 
more  fatal  to  a  political  career  than  brilliant  im- 
promptus and  spirited  orations.  A  statesman's  words, 
like  butcher's  meat,  should  be  well  weighed." 

"  You  have  so  many  prescriptions  for  success,"  said 
Bradwyn,  "  that  I  wonder  you  ain't  President  yourself." 

"  Reckage  has  taken  us  all  in,"  said  Ullweather. 

"  By  no  means,"  said  Bradwyn.  "  I  maintained 
from  the  first  that  he  was  overrated.  His  genial 
manner — his  open-hearted  smile  !  Men  always  smile 
at  creditors  whom  they  don't  intend  to  pay." 

"  I  foretold  the  whole  situation,"  observed  Pen- 
borough.  "  I  said,  '  Let  Reckage  once  get  full  power, 
and  he  will  fool  us  all.'  He  affects  not  to  be  am- 
bitious, and  to  prefer  moral  science  to  immoral  politics. 
I  have  no  faith  in  these  active  politicians  who  make 
long  speeches  to  the  public,  and  assure  their  friends, 
in  very  short  notes,  that  they  prefer  trout-fishing  to 
the  cares  of  State  !  There  is  but  one  man  who  can 
save  the  society  now." 

Bradwyn,  Hatchett,  and  Ullweather  looked  up, 
each  armed  with  a  modest  but  repudiating  smile. 

"  Who  ?  "  asked  Hatchett,  looking  down. 

"  Robert  Orange,"  said  Penborough. 

"  Probably,"  replied  Hatchett,  after  a  minute's 
hesitation.     "  Probably,  Orange  ...  in  time." 


38  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

•'  Don't  you  like  him  ?"  said  Penborough. 

"  Like  him ! "  answered  Hatchett,  rolling  up  his 
eyes.     "  He's  an  angel !  " 

"  He  calls  him  an  angel  as  though  he  wished  he 
were  one  in  reality,"  said  Bradwyn,  "  I  know  these 
generous  rivals !  " 

Ullweather  stood  gnawing  his  upper  lip. 

"  Orange,"  he  said  at  last.  "  Oh,  Orange  has  ar- 
rived. He  will  get  no  further.  Of  course,  he  won 
that  election,  but  Dizzy  managed  that.  Dizzy  is  the 
devil !  And  then,  he  is  still  devoted  to  Reckage,  and, 
for  a  man  of  his  supposed  shrewdness,  I  call  that  a 
sign  of  evident  weakness." 

At  this,  Charles  Aumerle,  who  had  been  listening 
with  the  deepest  attention  to  all  that  passed,  looked 
straight  at  the  speaker, 

"You  should  respect,"  said  he,  "  that  liberty,  which 
we  all  have  to  deceive  ourselves.  Reckage  has  many 
good  points." 

"  But,"  said  Penborough,  "  he  has  no  moral  force, 
no  imagination.  He  judges  men  by  their  manners, 
which  is  silly.  He  thinks  that  every  one  who  is  polite 
to  him  believes  in  him.  He  will  have  to  send  in  his 
resignation  before  long." 

"You  don't  mean  it,"  said  Aumerle. 

"  I  mean  more,"  continued  Penborough.  "  He 
could  not  choose  a  better  moment  than  the  present. 
In  another  month,  on  its  present  lines,  the  whole 
league  will  have  foundered.  Should  he  remain,  he 
would  have  to  sink  with  the  ship.  Now,  however,  it 
appears  safe  enough — people  see  only  what  you  see — 
a  good  cargo  of  influential  names  on  the  committee 
and  a  clear  horizon.  He  could  plead  ill-health,  or  his 
marriage — in  fact,  a  dozen  excellent  reasons  for 
momentary  retirement.     The  world  would  praise  his 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  29 

tact.  As  for  the  rest,  those  who  have  been  disillu- 
sioned will  lose  their  heads,  those  who  were  merely 
self-seekers  will  probably  lose  their  places,  but  the 
trimmers  always  keep  something.  The  thing,  then, 
is  to  cultivate  the  art  of  trimming." 

"  But  you  forget  that  Reckage  is  going  to  marry 
Miss  Carillon,"  said  Aumerle.  "  Miss  Carillon  will 
always  advise  the  safe  course." 

"  That's  all  very  well,"  said  Bradwyn,  "  but  there 
has  been  too  much  arrangement  in  that  marriage  !  I 
can  tell  you  how  the  engagement  came  about.  She 
was  intimate  with  his  aunt.  He  acquired  the  habit  of 
her  society  on  all  decorous  occasions.  Still,  he  never 
proposed.  The  aunt  invited  her  to  Almouth.  She 
stayed  two  months.  Still,  not  a  word.  Herpapagrew 
impatient,  ordered  her  home.  The  next  day  she  came 
to  the  breakfast-table  with  red  eyes,  and  announced 
her  departure.  The  boxes  were  packed  ;  she  went  to 
take  a  last  look  at  the  dear  garden.  Reckage  followed, 
Fate  accompanied  him.  He  spoke.  She  sent  a  tele- 
gram to  her  papa  :  '  Detained.  Important,  Will 
write.'  No,  the  real  woman  for  him  was  Lady  Sara 
de  Treverell." 

Ullweather  thrust  his  tongue  into  his  cheek. 

"  Lady  Sara  has  been  called  to  higher  destinies," 
said  he,  "  than  the  heavenly  '  sweet  hand  in  hand  ! '  " 

"I  see  you  know,"  said  Bradwyn,  with  a  mysterious 
glance. 

"Yes,"  said  Ullweather.  "The  friendship  of  the 
Duke  of  Marshire  for  Lady  Sara  increases  every  day, 
and  the  little  fit  of  giddiness  which  seized  him  when 
he  was  dining  with  my  Chief  makes  me  think  that 
admiration  is  developing  into  love.  I  am  in  great 
hopes  that  this  match  may  come  off." 

"  As  to  that,"  said   Hatchett,  "  her  father  and  the 


30  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

Duke  were  the  night  before  last  at  Brooke's,  but  no 
conversation  passed  between  them.  This  does  not 
look  as  though  a  very  near  alliance  were  in  contem- 
plation." 

"  There  are  prettier  women  than  she  in  the  world," 
said  Aumerle. 

"  I  have  never  seen  her,"  said  Penborough, 

"  Large  eyes,  a  small  head,  and  the  devil  of  a 
temper,"  said  Bradwyn  ;  "  and  sympathies — there  never 
was  a  young  woman  with  so  many  sympathies  !  There 
is  an  old  proverb,"  he  added  with  a  sneer.  '  They  are 
not  all  friends  of  the  bridegroom  who  seem  to  be  fol- 
lowing the  bride.'  " 

Ullweather  was  still  absorbed  in  his  own  meditation. 

"  Marshire,"  said  he,  "  is  the  man  for  us.  We  might 
do  something  with  Marshire." 

"  Nevertheless,"  said  Penborough  "  I  have  my  eye 
on  Orange." 

"  I  say,"  exclaimed  Bradwyn,  "  be  careful.  Here  is 
Reckage  again.     How  the  dickens  did  he  pass  us  ?  " 

The  men  glanced  up  at  a  solitary  figure  which  now 
appeared  descending  the  broad  staircase.  In  silence, 
and  with  a  studied  expression  of  contempt,  without  a 
look  either  to  the  right  or  to  the  left,  the  unpopular 
leader  passed  through  the  hall  and  out  into  the  street. 

"  A  lonely  beggar,  after  all,"  said  Bradwyn, 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  31 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Reckage  was  dining  at  home  that  evening  with 
Orange,  whose  marriage  was  to  take  place  at  the  Al- 
berian  EmLassy  on  the  morrow.  The  young  man  was 
not  in  good  spirits  at  his  friend's  step,  for  he  himself 
was  about  t^  take  a  wife  also,  and  much  of  the  appre- 
hension which  he  felt  on  his  own  account  found  its 
vent  in  dreary  soliloquies  on  the  risk,  sacrifices,  re- 
sponsibilities, and  trouble  involved  by  the  single  act  of 
saddling  oneself  for  a  lifetime  with  some  one  woman. 
Reckage,  for  his  own  part,  had  loved  one  lady  very 
well,  yet  not  so  madly  that  he  could  resign  himself  to 
loving  her  only,  to  the  exclusion  of  all  others.  He 
walked  along  toward  Almouth  House  in  a  mood  of 
many  vexations,  cursing  the  impudence  of  Bradwyn 
and  Ullweather,  wondering  whether  he  had  done 
wisely,  after  all,  in  engaging  himself  to  the  blameless 
Miss  Carillon,  sighing  a  little  about  a  rumour  which 
had  reached  him  about  Sara  de  Treverell  and  the 
Duke  of  Marshire,  deploring  the  obstinacy  of  Robert 
Orange  where  Mrs.  Parflete  was  concerned.  He  ad- 
mitted that  Mrs.  Parflete  was  an  exceedingly  beauti- 
ful, young,  and,  as  it  happened,  rich  person.  He 
owned  her  delightfulness  for  a  man  of  Robert's  dreamy, 
romantic,  intense  temperament.  But  marriage  be- 
tween two  idealists  so  highly  strung,  and  so  passion- 
ately attached  as  these  two  beings  were — what  would 
happen  ?  No  doubt  they  would  be  able  to  endure  the 
inevitable  disillusions — (inevitable  because  Nature  is 


32  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

before  all  things  sensual  and  has  no  care  for  mental 
prejudices  one  way  or  the  other) — the  inevitable  dis- 
illusions of  family  life.  It  was  scarcely  possible  that 
the  devotion  of  Robert  and  Mrs.  Parflete  would  not 
waver  or  seem  less  exquisite  under  this  discipline. 
Their  dream  of  love  would  become  unparadised.  It 
would  gain  a  sadness,  a  melancholy,  a  note  of  despair 
hard  to  endure  and  most  difificult  to  repress.  Reckage 
had  no  transcendentalism  in  his  own  philosophy  :  he 
divided  men  into  two  classes — those  who  read,  and 
those  who  could  not  stand,  Dante.  He  included 
himself  among  the  latter  with  a  frankness  at  once 
astonishing  and  welcome  even  to  numbers  who 
thought  him,  in  most  matters,  a  hypocrite.  The 
hold  of  the  world  was  growing  daily  stronger  upon 
him.  His  ambitions  were  already  sullied  by  many 
unworthy  and  deadening  ideas.  He  dwelt  a  great 
deal  on  the  fleetingness  of  life,  and  the  wisdom  of 
making  the  best  of  its  few  charming  things.  Food, 
and  wine,  and  money,  and  fine  houses,  and  amuse- 
ments were  subjects  on  which  he  expended  a  large 
amount  of  silent  enthusiasm.  But,  for  all  this,  he 
could  still  see  much  to  admire — perhaps  to  envy — in 
Robert's  m.ore  spiritual  mind,  and  he  dreaded — as  men 
often  do  dread  in  such  cases — the  effect  of  a  woman's 
companionship  on  so  ascetic  a  character. 

"  He  knows  nothing  about  women — nothing,"  he 
told  himself.  "  He  has  no  experience.  He  takes 
them  too  seriously." 

He  was,  while  he  admitted  his  own  unreasonable- 
ness, a  little  shocked  at  the  very  notion  of  Orange 
with  a  wife  and  children.  It  went  against  the  grain, 
and  upset  the  ideals  of  austerity  which  he  had  care- 
fully  planned — not  for  himself,  but  for  his  friend. 
Robert,  he  urged,  was  born  to  be  an  example — an  en 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  33 

couragement  to  those  who  were  called,  by  the  mercy 
of  God,  to  less  rigorous  vocations.  Reckage  suffered 
many  scruples  of  conscience  on  Robert's  account :  he 
surveyed  him  with  a  sense  of  disappointment  ;  he  had 
always  supposed  that  he  would  ultimately  turn  Jesuit 
in  sober  earnest,  and  die  a  martyr's  death  in  the  Far 
East.  This  would,  in  his  opinion,  have  been  a  fine 
end  to  a  Quixotic,  very  touching,  most  remarkable 
life.  Would  he  now  immaturely  fall  a  victim  to  an 
enticing  face,  and  the  cares  of  a  household?  Would 
he  be  able  to  sustain  his  character?  One  thing  was 
certain.  He  could  never  again  expect  to  exercise  pre-' 
cisely  the  same  potent  influence  as  he  had  in  the  past, 
over  his  earth-bound,  self-indulgent  friends.  Self- 
indulgent  people  always  exacted  unusual  privations 
from  those  who  would  seek  to  move  them — and 
Robert's  call  was  clearly  to  materialists  rather  than 
to  the  righteous.  Pusey  married,  it  was  true.  Keble 
married.  No  one  thought  the  less  of  them  on  that 
account.  Even  the  judicious  Hooker  married.  And 
they  were  clergymen.  Reckage  called  them  priests. 
But  Newman  did  not  marry,  and,  while  Reckage  was 
unable  to  agree  in  the  main  with  Newman's  views,  he 
had  a  fixed  notion  that  he  was  the  strong  man — the 
master  spirit — among  them.  And  another  considera- 
tion. The  passion  of  love  has  a  danger  for  very  sensi- 
tive, reserved,  and  concentrated  minds  unknown  to 
creatures  of  more  volatile,  expansive,  and  unreflecting 
disposition.  Reckage  knew  well  that  he  was  himself 
too  selfish  a  man  to  let  affection  for  any  one  creature 
come  between  his  soul  and  its  God.  There  was  no 
self-discipline  required  in  his  case  when  a  choice  had 
to  be  made  between  a  human  being  and  his  own 
advantage — whether  temporal  or  eternal.  He  had 
never — since  he  was  a  youth — felt  an  immoderate 
3 


34  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

fondness  for  anybody  :  he  had  likes  and  dislikes, 
admirations  and  partialities,  jealousies,  too,  and  well- 
defined  tastes  where  feminine  beauty  was  in  question, 
but  it  was  not  in  him  to  err  from  excess  of  charity. 
The  imaginative  and  visionary  parts  of  life — and  no 
one  is  wholly  without  them — soon  turned  into  severe 
reality  whenever  he  found  himself  confronted  with 
that  sole  absorbing  interest — his  career.  Marriage — 
in  his  own  case — seemed  an  imperative  duty.  He  was 
an  eldest  son,  the  heir  to  an  earldom  and  a  vast  estate  ; 
he  wished  to  lead  a  distinguished,  comfortable,  and 
edifying  existence.  His  wife  would  be  a  helpmate, 
not  a  snare  ;  the  mother  of  his  children,  not  the  light 
of  his  eyes.  But  what  a  difference  in  Robert's  case — 
with  his  capacity  for  worship,  for  really  intense  and 
absorbing  passion.  All  this  was  especially  transparent 
to  Reckage,  who,  as  a  man  of  the  world,  had  watched 
his  friend  for  months,  detecting  the  shattering  physical 
effects  of  an  iron  restraint  imposed  on  every  thought, 
mood,  and  inclination.  He  had  enjoyed  the  spectacle  : 
it  was  a  good  fight — this  sharp,  unceasing  struggle 
between  mere  human  nature,  young,  vigorous,  sane, 
indefatigable,  and  an  upright  soul  full  of  tenderness, 
yet  forced  to  live  in  constant  warfare.  Awe,  too,  had 
mingled  in  Reckage's  sensations  while  he  looked  on ; 
something  of  pity  and  terror  stirred  under  the  callous 
muscle  which  he  called  his  heart  at  the  sight  of  a 
voiceless,  stifled  despair  outside  the  range  of  his  per- 
sonal experience,  though  not  entirely  beyond  his  sym- 
pathy. All  men  did  not  love  after  this  fashion,  he 
knew,  but  humanity  was  full  of  surprises,  and  he  had 
been  too  calm  a  student  of  other  men's  lives  to  feel 
astonishment  at  any  fresh  revelation  either  of  their 
pain,  their  perversity,  or  their  humours.  He  had  felt 
so  sure,  however,  that  Robert  would,  in  the   end,  get 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  35 

the  better  of  that  unhappy  attachment  ;  everything 
in  the  process  of  time  had  to  surrender  to  reason,  and 
it  was  not  possible,  he  thought,  that  a  strong,  self- 
reliant  man  could  long  remain  subdued  by  a  mere 
infatuation. 

"  And  why  doesn't  he  think  of  his  health  ?  "  insisted 
Reckage  ;  "  it  is  really  going  between  all  this  sleepless- 
ness, and  fasting,  and  over-work.  Flesh  and  blood 
cannot  bear  the  strain.  He  is  never  idle  for  one  mo- 
ment.    He  is  afraid  of  brooding." 

It  was  with  these  sentiments  of  fear  for  the  one 
creature  he  believed  in,  and  hostility  toward  the 
woman  who  had  presumed  to  interfere  with  the 
progress  of  that  clear  spirit,  that  he  found  himself  at 
Almouth  House.  The  blinds  of  the  dining-room  were 
but  partially  down.  He  could  see  the  men-servants 
within  preparing  the  table  which,  set  for  two  covers, 
showed  a  pretty  display  of  cut-glass,  flowers,  old  silver, 
and  shining  damask  under  the  yellow  rays  of  the  lit 
candles.  Some  family  portraits  by  Gainsborough  and 
Reynolds,  a  Holbein,  and  a  Vandyck,  with  lamps 
shining  like  footlights  beneath  them,  were  darkly 
visible  on  the,  dull  blue  walls.  The  famous  mantel- 
piece inlaid  with  uncut  turquoise  was  also  within 
sight  ;  and  the  sideboard  with  its  load  of  Sevres  china 
and  gold  dishes.  Reckage  took  great  pride  in  these 
possessions,  but  it  shocked  his  sense  of  dignity  to  see 
them  thus  exposed  to  the  vulgar  gaze. 

He  let  himself  into  the  mansion  with  a  latchkey, 
stormed  at  the  servants  for  their  carelessness,  and 
made  what  is  commonly  known  as  a  scene. 

Then  he  crossed  the  hall,  and  went  into  another  fine 
room,  which  led  by  steps  into  a  garden,  and  caught 
the  sunset. 

Here,  standing  by  the  window  with  his  back  to  the 


36  ROBERT  ORANGE, 

door,  looking  at  the  clouds  greyer  than  a  gull's  wing 
which  fled  like  driven  souls  across  the  sky,  stood 
Orange. 

He  turned  as  the  latch  moved,  and  Reckage  coming 
in,  perceived  the  pale  face,  resolute,  a  little  proud,  and 
thoroughly  inscrutable,  of  his  former  secretary.  Of 
fine  height  and  broad-shouldered,  Robert  bore  himself 
with  peculiar  firmness  and  ease.  His  brown  eyes, 
with  their  brilliant,  defiant  glance,  his  close,  dark 
beard,  and  powerful  aquiline  features;  the  entire  ab- 
sence of  vanity,  or  the  desire  to  produce  an  impres- 
sion which  showed  itself  in  every  line  of  his  face  and 
every  movement  of  his  body,  indicated  a  type  of  in- 
dividual more  likely  to  attract  the  confidence  of  men 
than  the  sentimentality  of  women. 

The  two  young  men  greeted  each  other  pleasantly, 
but  with  a  certain  reserve  on  each  side. 

"  So  you  are  here  !  "  said  Reckage,  seating  himself. 
"  I  am  sorry  to  be  late.  The  fact  is  I  caught  sight  of 
old  Garrow  and  Sara  de  Treverell  driving  together  in 
the  Park,  and  it  suddenly  occurred  to  me  to  ask  'em 
to  dine  with  us  to-night.  I  raced  after  their  brougham, 
but  my  brute  of  a  horse — Pluto :  you  know  the  beast 
— gave  me  such  a  lot  of  trouble  that  I  couldn't  speak 
to  them.  How  are  you  ?  You  don't  look  very  fit. 
Perhaps  you  are  glad  that  we  are  alone.  But  Sara  is 
a  nice  girl,  and  full  of  kindness.  She's  a  good  friend, 
too — just  the  friend  for  your  wife.     I  thought  of  that." 

Robert  resumed  his  post  at  the  window,  and  studied 
the  heavens.  But  if  he  sought  for  any  answer  to  the 
many  impassioned  questions  which  were  thronging  his 
heart  and  mind  at  that  moment,  he  looked  in  vain. 
For  himself  the  struggles  of  the  last  year  had  been  to 
a  great  degree  subconscious.  He  had  been  like  a  sick 
man  who,  ignorant  of  the  real  gravity  of  his  condition, 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  37 

fights  death  daily  without  a  thought  of  the  unequal 
strife,  or  the  suspense  of  his  physicians.  He  had 
abandoned  himself  to  study,  immersed  himself  in 
work:  he  was  neither  morbid  nor  an  amorist,  and 
while  he  felt  a  stinging  misery  for  ever  in  his  heart,  he 
bore  it  with  manly  reticence,  without  complaint,  with- 
out despair.  Love,  in  his  case,  had  meant  the  ideal- 
isation of  the  whole  of  life — the  life  of  action  and  the 
life  within  the  soul.  It  had  transfigured  the  world,  lit 
up  and  illumined  every  dark  corner,  answered  every 
turbulent  doubt.  From  the  habit  of  this  wholly  men- 
tal emotion,  he  had  lost,  little  by  little,  the  sense  of 
the  actual  bodily  existence  of  the  woman  herself.  It 
is  true  that  he  thought  of  her  always  as  some  one 
modestly  beautiful,  of  childish  form,  with  a  face  like 
a  water-nymph's  —  imperious,  magical,  elusive,  yet, 
whenever  he  found  himself  in  her  presence,  she  seemed 
further  away  than  they  were,  in  fact,  apart.  The  kiss 
he  had  given  her  on  the  day  of  their  betrothal  had 
been  as  strange,  indefinable,  and  irrealisable  as  the 
passing  of  one  hour  into  the  next.  There  had  been 
the  time  before  he  kissed  her,  there  was  the  time 
afterwards,  but  the  transition  had  been  so  swift,  and 
so  little  recognised,  so  inevitable,  that  while  it  drew 
both  their  lives  down  deep  into  the  wild,  pitiless  surge 
of  human  feeling,  she  still  remained  more  dearly  and 
completely  his  by  intuition  than  when  he  held  her — a 
true  woman — in  his  arms.  The  moral  training  of  a 
lifetime,  the  unceasing,  daily  discipline  of  a  mind — 
indulgent  to  others,  but  most  severe  with  itself — had 
given  him  a  self-mastery  in  impulse  and  desire  which, 
although  the  aspect  of  affairs  had  changed,  he  could 
not  easily,  or  even  willingly,  relax.  His  soul  drew 
back  from  its  new  privileges,  sweet  as  they  were — and 
he  was  too  honest  to  deny  their  overpowering  sweet- 


38  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

ness — they  seemed  like  the  desecration  of  a  most 
sacred  thought.  Vainly  he  reasoned,  vainly  he  ad- 
mitted the  folly  of  such  scruples.  They  remained. 
Asceticism  is  a  faithful  quality.  It  is  won  by  slow 
and  painful  stages,  with  bitter  distress  and  mortifying 
tears,  but  once  really  gained,  the  losing  is  even  harder 
than  the  struggle  for  its  acquisition. 

And  so  the  young  man  found  himself  in  that  hard 
position  when  judgment  and  prejudice  stand  opposed 
so  utterly  that  victory  either  way  must  mean  a  lasting 
regret.  Perhaps  he  was  not  the  first  bridegroom  who 
felt  loath,  on  the  eve  of  his  marriage,  to  change  the 
delicate,  almost  ethereal  tenderness  of  betrothed  lovers 
for  the  close  and  intimate  association  of  husband  and 
wife.  The  one  relationship  has  something  in  it  im- 
material, exquisite,  and  unearthly,  a  bond  invisible  and 
yet  as  potent  as  the  winds  we  cannot  see  and  the 
melodies  we  only  hear.  The  other,  with  its  profound 
appeals  to  mortality,  its  demands  upon  all  that  is 
strongest  in  affection  and  eternal  in  courage,  its  irrep- 
arableness,  suffering,  and  constancy  might  indeed 
have  the  grandeur  of  all  human  tragedy,  and  the 
dignity  of  a  holy  state,  but  that  it  could  ever  be  so 
beautiful  as  the  love  which  is  a  silent  influence,  was 
to  Robert  then,  at  least,  an  inconceivable  idea.  He  felt 
upon  him  and  around  him,  in  his  flesh  and  in  his  spirit, 
in  the  air  and  in  the  whole  world,  the  all-enveloping 
shadow  of  remorse.  The  dormant  possibilities  of  his 
own  fanatical  nature  rose  up  before  him — pale,  inartic- 
ulate fiercenesses  crushed  so  long,  and  now  trembling 
eagerly  under  his  breath  at  the  prospect  of  a  little 
more  liberty  in  loving.  A  suspicion  that  already  he 
loved  perhaps  too  well  and  far  too  passionately  thrilled 
through  his  conscience,  and  tortured  a  heart  to  whom 
thought  was  a  refuge,  and  feeling  a  martyrdom. 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  39 

Reckage,  watching  Robert  from  a  corner  of  the 
room,  grew  irritated  at  the  silence,  and  wondered, 
with  a  cruel  and  jealous  curiosity,  what  was  passing  in 
his  mind.  He  wondered  whether  he  was  pra3dng.  An 
impulse,  which  had  something  in  it  of  brute  fury,  urged 
him  to  tear  open  that  still  face,  and  drag  the  thoughts 
behind  it  to  the  light.  Why  was  it  that  one  could 
never,  by  any  sense,  enter  into  another's  spirit?  The 
same  torturing  mystery  had  often  disturbed  him  during 
the  half-hours — outwardly  placid  and  commonplace — 
which  he  spent,  out  of  etiquette,  with  his  future  bride. 
She,  too,  retired  behind  the  veil  of  her  countenance 
to  live  a  hidden  life  that  he  could  never  hope  to  join. 
How  lonely  was  companionship  in  these  conditions, 
and  how  desolate  marriage ! 

He  could  not  resist  the  temptation  to  break  in,  with 
a  touch  of  crude  satire,  upon  his  friend's  solitude, 

"What  is  the  matter?"  he  exclaimed,  "are  you 
hungry  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Robert,  so  well  accustomed  to  such 
violent  jars  that  they  could  no  longer  disturb  him  ; 
"  I  was  only  thinking.  .  .  ." 

"About  what?" 

"  All  sorts  of  things." 

Reckage  turned  pale  from  dissatisfied  inquisitive- 
ness. 

"  I  think,  too,"  he  answered,  "  but  I  can  throw  out 
a  word  now  and  again." 

Then,  making  the  remark  that  he  was  not  dressed 
for  dinner,  he  left  the  room. 


40  ROBERT  ORANGE. 


CHAPTER  V. 

The  dinner,  in  the  ordering  of  which  the  host  had 
expended  all  his  gastronomical  knowledge  and  much 
anxiety,  seemed  long.  Orange  found  himself  opposite 
the  famous  portrait  of  "  Edwyn,  Lord  Reckage  of 
Almouth,"  which  represents  that  nobleman  elaborately 
dressed,  reclining  on  a  grassy  bank  by  a  spring  of 
water,  with  a  wooded  landscape,  a  sunrise,  and  a 
squire  holding  two  horses  in  the  distance.  Robert 
studied,  and  remembered  always,  every  detail  of  that 
singular  composition.  The  warrior's  shield,  with  its 
motto  "  Alagica  sympathia,''  his  fat  white  hands, 
velvet  breeches,  steel  cuirass,  and  stiff  lace  collar 
remained,  for  days,  a  grotesque  image  before  his  mind. 
He  traced,  too,  a  certain  resemblance  between  Reckage 
and  that  ancestor — they  both  wore  pointed  red  beards, 
both  were  fair  of  skin,  both  had  a  dreaming  violence 
in  their  blue  eyes. 

"  You  must  have  some  pheasant,"  said  his  lordship, 
at  last.  "  You  are  eating  nothing.  And  that  Burgundy, 
you  know,  is  unique  of  its  kind.  It  was  a  present 
from  the  Emperor  of  the  French  to  mamma.  Her 
people  were  civil  to  him  when  he  was  regarded  as  a 
sort  of  adventurer.  And  he  never  forgot  it.  He's  a 
very  decent  fellow.  I  dined  with  him  at  the  Tuileries 
— did  I  mention  it?" 

Robert  replied  that  he  fancied  he  had  heard  of  the 
occurrence. 

"  Well,"  continued  his  friend,  "  I  might  have  enjoyed 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  41 

that  experience,  but  I  was  feeling  depressed  at  the 
time  ;  a  lot  of  the  depression  went  under  the  influence 
of  frivolous  talk,  military  music,  and  champagne.  Yet 
all  the  same — do  these  things  really  count  for  much  ? 
I  felt  just  as  wretched  afterwards." 

The  glimpse  he  had  obtained  that  afternoon  of  Sara 
de  Treverell — Sara  flushed  with  agitation,  very  bright 
in  her  glance,  exceedingly  subtle  in  her  smile,  had 
stirred  a  great  tenderness  he  had  once  felt  for  that 
young  lady.  The  news,  too,  that  she  had  been  chosen 
as  a  bride  by  the  prudent,  rich,  and  most  important 
Duke  of  Marshire  made  his  lordship  feel  that  perhaps 
he  had  committed  a  blunder  in  not  having  secured  her, 
during  her  first  season,  for  himself.  He  feared  that  he 
had  lost  an  opportunity  ;  and  this  reflection,  while  it 
lowered  temporarily  his  self-esteem,  placed  Sara  on  a 
dangerous  eminence.  She  would  be  a  duchess — one 
of  the  great  duchesses.      Little  Sara  ! 

"  She  was  looking  extraordinarily  handsome,"  he 
exclaimed,  "  Of  course  she  means  to  take  him.  But 
she  liked  me  at  one  time.  I  am  speaking  of  Sara  de 
Treverell.  Marshire  is  by  way  of  being  a  stick.  Who 
could  have  imagined  him  going  in  for  a  high-spirited, 
brilliant  girl  like  Sara  ?  " 

Formerly  he  had  always  spoken  of  Sara  as  a  clever 
little  devil,  but  Robert  showed  no  surprise  at  the  new 
adjective. 

"  Brilliant !  "  repeated  his  lordship.  "  Don't  you 
agree  f 

"  Absolutely.  She  is  the  most  brilliant  girl  in 
London." 

"  But  heartless,"  said  his  lordship  pathetically ; 
"  she  hasn't  one  bit  of  heart." 

"  There  I  don't  agree  with  you.  Of  course  she  is 
strange  and  rather  wild." 


42  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

'*  Tite-mont^e.     And  then  the  Asiatic  streak !  " 

"  True.  The  fiercest  wind  cannot  take  the  angles 
out  of  the  bough  of  a  tree  an  inch  thick.  You  may 
break  it,  but  you  cannot  destroy  its  angles.  That  is 
so,  no  doubt,  with  one's  racial  tendencies.  The  girl 
is  wilful  and  romantic.  It  will  be  very  bad  for  them 
both  if  there  is  no  love  on  her  side.  She  is  capable,  I 
should  say,  of  very  deep  affection." 

"  She  did  like  me,"  said  his  lordship,  with  emphasis 
and  satisfaction — "  she  really  did.  And  I  wouldn't  en- 
courage it.  I  had  no  notion  then  of  marrying.  Her 
singularity,  too,  made  me  cautious.  I  couldn't  be- 
lieve in  her.  She  talked  like  an  actress  in  a  play.  I 
felt  that  she  was  not  the  woman  for  me.  Essentially 
she  thought  as  I  did,  and  seemed  to  comprehend  my 
embarrassment.  The  worst  of  it  is  now — I  may  have 
been  wrong." 

"  I  doubt  it.  You  may  be  sure,  on  the  whole,  that 
your  instincts  were  right." 

"  Still  there  is  a  distinct  misgiving.  I  was  drawn 
toward  her,  and,  when  I  made  up  my  mind  to  put  an 
end  to  the  matter,  our  friendship  was  severely  strained. 
But  it  was  not  broken.  Something  I  saw  in  her  face 
to-day  makes  me  sure  that  it  was  not  broken." 

While  he  was  speaking  the  servant  entered  with  a 
salver,  and  on  the  salver  was  a  note.  The  address 
showed  Sara's  large,  defiant  handwriting.  Reckage, 
who  had  a  touch  of  superstition  in  his  nature,  changed 
colour  and  even  hesitated  before  he  broke  the  seal. 
The  coincidence  seemed  extraordinary  and  fatal.  What 
did  it  mean  ?  He  read  the  letter  with  an  irresistible 
feeling  of  proud  delight. 

"  20A,  St.  James's  Square,  W. 
"  My  Dear  Beauclerk, —  Will  you  lunch  with  us  to- 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  43 

morrow  at  two  o'clock  ?  Papa  has  ininted  a  friend — a 
dreadful,  boring  friend — who  has  been  absent  front 
Engla7id  for  five  years.  Do  yon  Icnow  the  man?  Sir 
Piers  Harding  f  But  I  wa^it  some  one  to  encourage  me. 
You  ?     Do  ! 

"  Yours  sincerely, 

"  S.  L.  V.  DE  Treverell. 

*'  p.  S. — /  a7n  so  happy  about  you  and  Agnes.  Be 
kitid  to  her  akuays.      Wotit  you  ? 

All  his  life  he  had  found  a  difificulty  in  understand- 
ing women — the  significance  of  their  words,  the  precise 
translation  of  their  glances,  and  their  motives  gener- 
ally. He  had  nourished  his  experience  on  French 
novels ;  he  had  corrected  it  by  various  friendships ;  he 
had  crowned  it  with  the  confession  that  one  could 
never  tell  what  the  sex  meant  one  way  or  the  other. 
But  this  fact  remained — he  was  a  coxcomb,  and,  when- 
ever he  owned  himself  puzzled,  it  was  on  a  single 
ground  only — how  seriously  was  the  lady  at  stake  af- 
fected by  his  charms  ?  Feeling,  as  he  did,  the  infinite 
inequality  that  existed  between  men,  and  conscious  of 
his  own  reputation  as  a  leader  among  them,  it  was  not 
in  his  conscience  to  encourage  any  woman  whom  he 
did  not  find  especially  attractive  or  useful.  Why  spoil 
her  chances  ?  Why  make  her  discontented  with  the 
average  male  creature?  Had  Sara  written  to  him  in 
ordinary  circumstances,  inviting  him,  after  some 
months  of  mutual  coldness,  to  lunch,  he  would  have 
replied,  with  sorrowful  dignity,  that  it  was  wiser  to 
leave  things  as  they  were.  But  the  case  had  altered. 
The  future  Duchess  of  Marshire  was  a  personage.  He 
made  no  secret  of  his  admiration  for  all  people  of  high 
rank.  They  represented  influence  and  traditions ; 
what  was  more,  they  could  exercise  a  certain   power, 


44  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

and  introduce,  when  necessary,  the  ideas  upon  which 
fresh  traditions  could  be  based.  A  friend  like  Sara  de 
Treverell  with  her  new  honours  made  life  itself  more 
rich  to  him.  When  he  remembered  that  she  was 
young,  handsome,  enthusiastic,  and  impulsive,  his 
pleasure  thrilled  into  something  of  genuine  passion. 
He  told  himself  that  he  had  always  been  fond  of  the 
girl  ;  that  hundreds  of  times  he  had  felt  the  hardness 
of  his  scrupulous  position  where  she  was  concerned. 
If  he  had  been  asked  what  especially  he  conceived  his 
own  duty  to  be  now,  he  would  have  said  that  it  was 
not  for  him  to  hang  back  when  she  showed  a  coming 
spirit.  But  this  was  not  all.  He  was  a  gamester;  he 
was  ambitious. 

"  This  is  very  odd,"  said  he,  reading  Sara's  note  for 
the  second  time,  "  very  odd.  There's  no  harm  in 
showing  it  to  you,  because  there  is  nothing  in  it." 

He  gave  it  to  his  friend,  and  eat,  pleasantly,  while 
Orange  glanced  down  the  page.  His  soul's  wish  was 
to  be  left  alone.  The  effort  of  forcing  himself— not  to 
affect  but  honestly  to  feel — an  interest  in  Reckage's 
conversation  had  proved  successful.  He  had  indeed 
put  aside  his  own  thoughts,  and  followed,  with  the  ex- 
aggerated earnestness  of  a  mind  determined  on  self- 
sacrifice,  every  word  his  companion  had  uttered.  The 
spirit  invisible  wears  the  laurel  of  mental  victories,  but 
the  body  has  to  bear  the  exhaustion,  the  scars,  and  the 
soreness.  He  was  tired,  but  he  stirred  himself  again 
to  consider  Sara's  note.  In  the  course  of  that  year 
she  had  written  several  letters  to  Orange — letters 
about  books,  new  pictures,  and  new  music.  Once  she 
had  given  him  a  little  song  of  her  own  composition  as 
something  of  which  she  "  desired  to  hear  no  more  for 
ever."  The  song  was  sentimental,  and  he  locked  it 
away,  wondering  at  the  time  whether  she  really  had  an 


ROBERT  ORANGE,  45 

unfortunate  affection  for  Lord  Reckage.  But  in  read- 
ing her  note  that  evening  he  decided  against  his  orig- 
inal  fear.  Women  did  not  write  in  that  strain  to  men 
whom  they  loved,  or  had  ever  loved  .  .  .  even  pass- 
ably well.  He  returned  it  to  the  owner  with  this 
comment  : 

"  A  woman,  you  know,  is  like  your  shadow  :  run 
away  from  her  and  she  follows  you  ;  run  after  her  and 
she  flies  from  you.  That's  an  old  saying.  It  is  true 
so  long  as  she  does  not  love  the  man.  And  when  she 
loves  the  man — well,  then  she  ceases  to  be  a  shadow. 
She  becomes  a  living  thing." 

"  That  is  no  answer  at  all.  If  you  could  read  her 
heart  and  whole  thought  at  this  moment,  what  would 
you  see  there  ?  " 

"  Unhappiness,"  said  Robert  ;  "  discontent." 

Reckage  took  the  little  sheet  and  folded  it  into  his 
pocketbook. 

"  That's  wonderful,"  said  he,  "  because  the  same 
things  are  in  my  mind,  too.  I  wish  I  could  describe 
my  feelings  about  Agnes.  She  satisfies  the  aesthetic 
side  of  my  nature.  But  there  is  another  side.  And 
Sara  comes  nearer  to  it  than  she.  Mind  you,  I  know 
my  duty  in  the  matter.  There  are  things  which  one 
is  compelled  to  do  under  tremendous  penalties.  I  have 
chosen,  and  I  must  abide  by  my  choice." 

Robert  looked  well  at  his  friend,  and  saw,  in  his 
expression,  all  that  he  had  known  would  inevitably, 
either  soon  or  too  late,  work  to  the  surface. 

"  Yet  the  old  tremulous  affection  lies  in  me,"  con- 
tinued Reckage;  "  my  nerves  are  in  a  kind  of  blaze. 
You  couldn't  tell  anything  about  it,  because  you  don't 
know." 

The  Emperor's  burgundy,  no  doubt,  had  warmed 
his  spirit  to  communicativeness.     He   drew  his  chair 


46  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

closer  to  the  table,  and  talked  in  a  low  voice  about  his 
ghastly  solitude  of  soul.  His  engagement  to  Miss 
Carillon  had  not  been  an  agreeable  experience. 

"  And  marriage,"  said  he,  "  will  be  the  crowning 
point  of  these  unbearable  days.  In  the  present  state 
of  my  feelings  it  would  be  awful.  Agnes  is  very  kind 
and  most  conscientious,  but  she  does  not  know  what 
is  in  me,  what  was  always,  and  will  always  be  there. 
Old  reminiscences  crowd  round  me.  They  are  very 
beautiful,  although  they  are  so  sad." 

"  What  is  one  to  do  ?  "  said  Robert,  "  in  the  presence 
of  fate  and  facts?  It  is  necessary  to  look  the  affair  in 
the  face.  Do  you,  or  don't  you,  wish  to  marry  Miss 
Carillon?" 

"  I  do,  and  I  don't,"  answered  Reckage  doggedly. 
"  But  I  can't  close  my  eyes  to  the  circumstances  of 
the  case.  I  found  myself  hard  bested  from  the  very 
beginning.  I  knew  that  I  was  expected  to  marry  her. 
I  knew,  too,  that  it  was  a  suitable  match  in  every  way. 
But  then  every  girl  is,  to  some  extent,  accomplished, 
pious,  virtuous,  and  intelligent.  I  believe  sometimes 
that  my  apparent  indifference  towards  Agnes  arises 
from  the  fact  that  I  respect  her— if  anything — too 
much.  She  seems  too  remote — that  is  the  word — for 
the  ordinary  wear  and  tear  of  domesticity.  Other 
men — who  might  be  called  impassioned  lovers — would 
be  less  scrupulous.  I  maintain  that  devotion  of  that 
violent  kind  is  worth  absolutely  nothing.  And  I  claim 
to  know  a  little  about  life  and  love." 

"  I  should  say,"  said  Orange,  "  that  you  knew  more 
about  mere  physiology." 

Reckage  laughed  uneasily. 

"  You  keep  your  mediaeval  views  !  "  said  he.  "  Per- 
haps I  envy  you.  I  can't  say.  I  don't  think  I  envy 
any  one.     I  am  quite  contented." 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  47 

"  Then  what  are  you  driving  at?  " 

"  Oh  well,  a  fellow  must  think.  You  see,  Sara  suits 
me,  in  a  sense.  I  am  not  afraid  of  her.  Now  a  wife 
is  a  sacred  object.  You  might  as  well  flirt  with  the 
Ten  Commandments  as  fall  in  love  with  your  wife.  I 
say,  never  begin  love-making  with  the  lady  you  hope 
to  marry.  It  will  end  in  disaster.  Because  the  day 
must  come  when  she  will  wonder  why  you  have 
changed.  No,  a  wife  should  be  the  one  woman  in  the 
world  with  whom  you  can  spend  days  and  weeks  of 
unreproved  coldness." 

They  were  now  smoking,  and  the  tobacco  seemed 
to  produce  a  tranquillising  efifect  upon  his  lordship.  He 
closed  his  lips  and  amused  himself  by  puffing  rings  of 
smoke  into  the  air.  When  he  next  spoke,  he  suggested 
a  visit  to  the  theatre.  He  had  engaged  a  box  for  the 
new  burlesque — T/ic  Blue  Princess, 

"  It  will  be  very  good,  and  it  will  cheer  us  up," 
said  he. 

Orange  was  in  no  mood  for  the  entertainment,  but 
Reckage's  evident  misery  seemed  to  require  a  fresh 
scene.  The  streets,  as  they  left  the  house,  were  full 
of  a  deep  purple  fog,  through  which  shone  out,  with  a 
dull  and  brazen  gleam,  the  lights  of  lamps  and  passing 
carriages.  Above  them,  the  sky  was  but  a  pall  of 
vapour;  the  air,  charged  with  the  emotions,  the  strug- 
gling energy,  the  cruelty,  confusion,  painfulness,  and 
unceasing  agitation  of  life  in  a  vast  city,  was  damp  and 
stifling ;  a  noise  of  traffic — as  loud  but  not  so  terrible 
as  a  breaking  storm — destroyed  the  peace  of  night : 
there  were  foot-passengers  of  every  age  and  description 
moving  like  rooks  in  the  wind,  over  the  pavement, 
and  vehicles  filled  with  men  and  women — an  irremedi- 
able pilgrimage  bound,  for  the  greater  part,  on  pleasure. 
Robert  felt  that  he  would  have  given  gladly  the  treas- 


48  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

ures  of  a  universe  for  just  the  time  to  think  a  little 
while  of  his  own  love.  So  far  that  great  attachment 
had  brought  him  aberrations,  sorrow,  and  perplexities; 
all  its  sweetness  had  flown,  moth-like,  into  his  heart, 
there  to  be  burnt — burnt  yet  left  unburied  :  all  its 
happiness  had  glorified  his  life  against  his  will ;  all  its 
beauty  had  been  starved  with  a  pitiless  rigour.  What 
then  had  remained  ?  A  certain  state  of  mind — a 
passionate  resignation  to  its  own  indomitable  cravings. 
And  now  on  the  eve  of  his  marriage — a  marriage  never 
so  much  as  imagined,  far  less  hoped  for — he  could  not 
have  the  leisure  to  behold,  through  tears  of  relief,  the 
complete  transformation  of  his  destiny — once  so  fright- 
ful, now  so  joyous.  The  theatre  was  crowded,  and 
when  the  two  young  men  entered  their  box  the  bur- 
lesque was  at  the  commencement  of  the  second  act. 
The  scene  represented  an  orange  grove  by  moonlight, 
and  a  handsome  girl  in  spangled  muslin  was  whisper- 
ing loudly,  to  an  accompaniment  of  harps,  her  eternal 
fidelity  to  a  gesticulating  troubadour.  Both  per- 
formers were  immensely  popular,  and  the  duet,  with 
its  refrain — 

"  Love,  I  will  love  thee  always, 
For  ever  is  not  too  long  ; 
Love,  e'en  in  dark  and  dreary  days, 
This  shall  be  my  one  song." 

was  repeated  three  times  to  the  smiling,  serene,  and 
thoroughly  convinced  audience.  Reckage,  who  at- 
tended public  places  of  amusement  solely  from  the 
desire  of  exhibiting  himself,  gave  but  a  side-glance  at 
the  stage  and  turned  his  opera-glass  upon  the  audi- 
torium. 

"  Really,  town    is  very   full,"   said  he ;  "I  suppose 
many  of  them  are  up  for  the   Hauconberg   wedding. 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  49 

There's  old  Cliddesdon — just  look  at  him.  Did  you 
ever  see  such  an  infernal  ass?  Hullo!  I  thought  that 
Millie  Warfield  wouldn't  be  far  off.  She's  a  perfect 
rack  of  bones.  Lady  Michelmarsh  is  getting  rather 
pretty — it's  wonderful  how  these  dowdy  girls  can 
work  up  their  profiles  after  a  month  or  two  in  town. 
She  was  a  lump  as  a  bride — a  regular  lump.  You 
never  met  anything  like  it.  Aumerle  is  talking  to 
her  now.  He  was  at  the  Capitol  this  afternoon.  He 
begins  to  give  himself  airs.  I  can't  stand  him.  In 
fact,  I  cannot  understand  those  fellows  on  my  sub- 
committee. Sometimes  they  are — if  anything — too 
civil.  A  bit  servile,  in  fact.  Then  they  turn  out  and 
look  as  though  they  would  like  to  make  their  teeth 
meet  in  my  backbone.  They  sulk,  and  whisper  in 
groups,  and  snicker.  I  am  getting  sick  of  it.  I  must 
get  rid  of  them.  By  Jove  !  there's  Angelo  Rennes, 
the  painter.  I  thought  he  was  at  Amesbury — with 
the  Carillons, — doing  Agnes's  portrait.  It  can't  be 
finished.  She  said  distinctly  in  her  letter  this  morning 
— '  I  may  not  add  more  because  I  have  to  give  Mr. 
Rennes  a  sitting  while  the  light  is  good.'  Where's 
the  letter?  I  must  have  left  it  on  the  breakfast-table. 
Anyhow  that  is  what  she  said.  I'll  catch  Rennes'  eye 
and  have  him  up.     He  is  not  a  bad  sort." 

The  act-drop  had  now  descended,  the  lights  were 
turned  on  to  their  full  power,  and  Orange,  following 
the  direction  of  Reckage's  gaze,  saw,  in  the  last  row 
of  the  stalls,  a  large  man  about  forty  with  an  emo- 
tional, nervous  face,  a  heavy  beard,  and  dense  black 
hair.  He  was  leaning  forward,  for  the  seat  in  front 
of  him  was,  at  the  moment,  vacant;  his  hands  were 
tightly  locked,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  curtain.  At  last 
Reckage's  determined  stare  produced  its  effect.  He 
moved,  glanced  toward  the  box,  and,  in  response  to 
4 


50  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

his  lordship's  signal,  left  his  place.  Two  minutes  later 
Orange  heard  a  tap  at  the  door. 

"  That's  right,"  said  Reckage,  as  Rennes  entered, 
"  take  Orange's  chair.  He  doesn't  care  a  bit  about 
the  play,  or  anything  in  it.  He  is  going  to  get 
married  to-morrow.  You  know  Robert  Orange,  don't 
you?  You  ought  to  paint  him.  Saint  Augustine 
with  a  future.  Mon  devoir,  mes  livres,  et  puis  .  ,  .  et 
puis,  madame,  ma  fe mine." 

The  Emperor's  burgundy  indeed  had  not  been 
opened  in  vain.  Rennes  could  talk  well,  sometimes 
brilliantly,  often  with  originality,  and,  with  the  tact  of 
all  highly  sensitive  beings,  he  led  the  conversation 
into  impersonal  themes.  He  said  Miss  Carillon's  por- 
trait was  not  yet  finished,  but  he  changed  that  subject 
immediately,  and  the  evening,  which  had  been  to 
Orange  a  trial  of  patience,  ended  rather  better  than  it 
began.  Lord  Reckage  invited  Rennes  to  accompany 
them  home.  The  artist  did  not  appear,  at  first,  in  the 
mood  to  accept  that  invitation.  He,  too,  seemed  to 
have  many  things  he  wished  to  think  about  undisturbed, 
and  in  the  silence  of  his  own  company.  His  hesitation 
passed,  however  ;  the  kindness  in  his  nature  had  been 
roused  by  something  unusual,  haunting,  ominous  in 
Robert's  face." 

"  I  will  come,"  said  he. 

All  the  way,  on  their  walk  to  Almouth  House,  he 
kept  Reckage  amused.  Orange  never  once  felt  under 
the  necessity  to  speak.  He  was  able  to  dream,  to 
hold  his  breath,  to  remember  that  he  loved  and  was 
loved  again,  that  he  would  see  her  to-morrow — to- 
morrow quite  early,  and  then,  no  more  unutterable  fare- 
wells, heart-desolating  separations.  He  surprised  him- 
self by  saying  aloud — "  I  love  her  ...  I  love  her." 
The  two  men,  engrossed  in  talk,  did  not  hear  him. 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  51 

But  he  had  caught  the  words,  and  it  seemed  as  though 
he  heard  his  own  voice  for  the  first  time. 

"  You  must  want  some  supper,"  said  Reckage — "  a 
rum  omelette.' 

"No!  no  !  I  couldn't." 

He  sat  down  to  the  table,  however,  and  watched 
them  eat.  First  the  burlesque  was  discussed,  then  the 
actresses,  the  dresses,  the  dancing. 

"  Russia  is  the  place  for  dancing,"  said  Reckage, 
"  I  assure  you.  There  was  a  dancer  at  Petersburg. 
.  .  .  Something-or-other-^a'.f/^z  was  her  name,  and  a 
fellow  shot  himself  while  I  was  there  on  her  account. 
An  awful  fool,  I  can  tell  you  who  painted  her  portrait. 
A  Frenchman  called  Carolus-Duran.  I  believe  he  has 
a  career  before  him.     What  is  your  opinion  of  French 

art  ?  " 

Rennes  had  studied  in  Paris  and  was  well  acquainted 
with  the  artist  in  question.  They  talked  about  the 
exhibitions  of  the  year  and  the  prices  paid  at  a  recent 
sale  of  pictures. 

"  Old  Garrow  has  some  fine  pictures,"  said  Reckage. 
"  I  would  give  a  good  deal  for  his  Ghirlandajo.  Do 
you  know  it?  And  then  that  noble  Tintoret  ?  There 
are  so  many  persons  whose  position  in  life  compels 
them  to  encourage  art  without  having  any  real  enjoy- 
ment of  it.  Garrow  is  one  of  those  persons.  But  his 
daughter,  Lady  Sara,  has  a  touch  of  genius.  She's  a 
musician.  You  have  heard  her  play,  haven't  you, 
Robert?" 

"Yes." 

Robert  had,  at  that  instant,  observed  upon  the 
mantelpiece  a  letter  addressed  to  himself.  It  was 
from  Brigit.  He  grew  pale,  and  retired,  with  the  little 
envelope  lightly  written  on,  to  a  far  corner  of  the 
room.     For  some  moments  he  could   not  break    the 


52  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

seal.  The  sight  of  her  writing  filled  him  with  a  kind 
of  agony — something  beyond  his  control,  beyond  his 
comprehension.  What  did  it  mean — this  tightening 
of  the  heart,  this  touch  of  fear,  and  love,  and  fear 
again,  so  deep  that  the  whole  web  of  life  trembled 
and  its  strings  grew  confused  one  with  another,  and 
all  was  anguish,  darkness,  self-renunciation,  and  a 
wild,  a  dreadful  mystery  of  human  influence?  At  last 
he  opened  the  letter. 

"  My  Dearest,"  it  began,  "  I  can  never  say  all  that 
I  wish  to  say,  because  when  I  am  with  you  I  forget 
everything  and  watch  your  face.  When  I  am  away 
from  you  I  forget  your  face,  and  I  long  to  see  it  again 
in  order  that  I  may  remember  it  more  perfectly !  It 
is  so  hard  not  to  think  of  you  too  often.  But  I  have 
had  a  great  deal  of  sorrow,  and  everything  I  have  in 
the  world — except  you — is  a  grief.  I  know  that  we 
are  not  born  to  be  happy,  and  so,  I  wonder,  have  we 
stolen  our  happiness?  If  it  is  a  gift — I  know  not  what 
to  do  with  it.  I  cannot  speak  a  happy  language  :  the 
atmosphere  is  strange  and  frightens  me.  Dear  Robert, 
I  am  terrified,  uncertain,  but  when  we  meet  to-morrow 
you  will  give  me  courage.  And  then,  as  we  shall  not 
part  again,  I  need  never  again  be,  as  I  am  now,  too 
anxious.  Your  Brigit." 

Reckage's  voice  broke  in  again. 

"  I  do  wish  you  would  try  this  rum  omelette.  It  is 
capital." 

Orange  laughed,  but  left  the  room.  Rennes  remarked 
that  he  had  a  powerful  face. 

"Yes.  He  has  a  strong  character.  And  he  would 
never  deceive  another.  But  he  deceives  himself  hourly 
— daily." 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  53 

"  In  what  way?  '  asked  Rennes. 

"  He  doesn't  know,"  said  Reckage,  "  what  a  devilish 
fine  chap  he  is !  I  wish  to  God  that  I  could  prevent 
this  marriage." 

"  Why  ?  " 

"  I  say  nothing  against  Mrs.  Parflete.  She's  a  high- 
class  woman  and  so  on.  Awfully  beautiful,  too.  As 
clever  as  they  make  'em,  and  not  a  breath  against  her. 
All  the  same,  I  am  not  very  sweet  on  love-matches  for 
men  of  Orange's  calibre.     They  never  answer — never." 

"  I  don't  agree  with  you  there,"  replied  the  artist, 
"  because  I  believe  that  a  love-match — even  when  it 
dissolves,  as  it  may,  into  a  mistake — is  the  best  thing 
that  can  happen  to  any  man." 

After  this,  they  discussed  bindings.  Lord  Reckage 
was  the  first  amateur  authority  on  the  subject. 


54  ROBERT  ORANGE. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

At  five  the  next  morning  Robert  was  writing  letters. 
Then,  as  soon  as  the  gates  of  Hyde  Park  were  open, 
he  walked  out.  The  recurrence  of  familiar  sentiments 
on  the  essentials  that  make  up  the  condition  known  as 
happiness  would  neither  convince,  nor  inspire,  the 
powers  of  an  imagination  which,  with  all  its  richness, 
was,  apart  from  the  purely  artistic  faculty,  analytical 
and  foreboding.  Self-doubt,  however,  has  no  part  in 
passion.  Of  the  many  miseries  it  may  bring,  this, 
perhaps  the  worst  of  human  woes,  can  never  be  in  its 
train.  Men  in  love — and  women  also — may  distrust 
all  things  and  all  creatures,  but  their  own  emotion,  like 
the  storm,  proves  the  reality  of  its  force  by  the  mis- 
chief it  wreaks.  Robert's  spirit — borne  along  by  this 
vehemence  of  feeling — caught  the  keen  sweetness  of 
the  early  air — not  yet  infected  by  the  day's  trafific. 
His  melancholy — the  inevitable  melancholy  produced 
by  sustained  thought  on  any  subject,  whether  sublime 
or  simple — was  dispelled.  The  Park,  which  was  empty 
but  for  a  few  men  on  their  way  to  work  and  runners 
anxious  to  keep  in  training,  had  its  great  trees  still 
beautiful  from  the  lingering  glance  of  sum.mer ;  the 
wide  and  misty  stretches  of  grey  grass  were  fresh  in 
dew  ;  the  softness  and  haze — without  the  gloom — of 
autumn  were  in  the  atmosphere.  The  pride  of  love 
requited  and  the  instincts  of  youth  could  not  resist 
these  spells  of  nature.  Robert  remembered  only  that 
it  was  his  wedding-day :  that  every  throb  of  his  pulse 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  55 

and  every  second  of  time  brought  him  nearer  to  the 
supreme  joy  of  his  life  and  the  supreme  moment.  He 
had  never  used  his  nerves  with  bliss  and  tears,  and  he 
did  not  belong  to  the  large  army  of  young  gentlemen 
who  own  themselves  proudly 

"  Light  half-believers  of  our  casual  creeds, 
Who  never  deeply  felt,  nor  clearly  will'd.  .  .  . 
Who  hesitate  and  falter  life  away. 
And  lose  to-morrow  the  ground  won  to-day." 

This  view  of  heroism  was  not  possible  to  him,  and  he 
was  too  strong  in  mind  and  body  to  pretend  to  it. 
The  two  things  which  affect  a  career  most  profoundly 
are  religion,  or  the  lack  of  it,  and  marriage — or  not 
marrying;  for  these  things  only  penetrate  to  the  soul 
and  make  what  may  be  called  its  perpetual  atmosphere. 
The  Catholic  Faith,  which  ignores  no  single  possibility 
in  human  feeling  and  no  possible  flight  in  human 
idealism,  produces  in  those  who  hold  it  truly  a  fresh- 
ness of  heart  very  hard  to  be  understood  by  the  dispas- 
sionate critic  who  weighs  character  by  the  newest  laws 
of  his  favourite  degenerate,  but  never  by  the  primeval 
tests  of  God.  Our  bridegroom,  therefore,  was  thinking 
of  his  bride's  face,  the  pure  curves  of  her  mouth,  her 
sapphirine  eyes,  her  pretty  hands,  her  golden  hair,  the 
nose  which  others  found  fault  with,  which  he,  never, 
theless,  thought  wholly  delightful.  He  wondered  what 
she  would  say  and  how  she  would  look  when  they  met. 
Would  she  be  pale  ?  Would  she  be  frightened  ?  There 
had  always  been  a  certain  agony  in  every  former  meet- 
ing because  of  the  farewell  which  had  to  follow.  With 
all  his  habits  of  self-control,  he  had  never  been  able  to 
feel  quite  sure  that  the  word  too  much  would  not  be 
said,  that  the  glance  too  long  would  not  be  given. 
Her  own  simplicity,  he  told  himself,  had  saved  him 


56  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

from  disaster.  She  showed  her  affection  so  fearlessly — 
with  such  tender  and  discerning  trust — that  his  worst 
struggles  were  in  solitude — not  in  her  presence  at  all. 
It  was  when  he  was  away  from  her  immediate  peaceful 
influence  that  the  fever,  the  restlessness,  the  torments 
and  the  desperation  (has  not  old  Burton  summed  up 
for  us  the  whole  situation  and  all  the  symptoms  in  his 
Anatomy  f)  had  to  be  endured  and  conquered.  These 
trials  now — for  even  a  sense  of  humour  could  not  make 
them  less  than  trials — were  ended.  The  tragi-comic 
labour  of  walking  too  much  and  riding  too  much, 
working  and  smoking  too  much,  thinking  and  sleeping 
too  little — the  whole  dreary  business,  in  fact,  of  stifling 
any  absorbing  idea  or  ruling  passion — would  be  no 
more. 

When  he  returned  to  Almouth  House,  Reckage 
was  already  dressed  for  his  official  duties  as  "best 
man."  He  felt  an  unwonted  and  genuine  excitement 
about  Robert's  marriage.  He  put  aside  the  languor, 
ennui,  and  depression  which  he  felt  too  easily  on  most 
occasions,  and,  that  day  at  least,  he  was,  as  his  own 
servant  expressed  it,  "  nervous  and  cut-up." 

"  I  shall  miss  the  swimming,  the  boxing,  the  fencing, 
and  the  pistol  practice,"  he  complained,  referring  to 
diversions  in  which  Orange  was  an  expert  and  him- 
self the  bored  but  dutiful  participant.  "  They  nearly 
always  drop  these  things  when  they  marry."  The 
loss  he  really  feared  was  the  moral  support  and  affec- 
tion of  his  former  secretary — advantages  which  a 
selfish  nature  is  slow  to  appreciate,  yet  most  tenacious 
of  when  once  convinced  of  their  use.  The  nuptial 
mass  had  been  fixed  for  eight  o'clock,  the  wedding 
party  were  to  breakfast  at  Almouth  House  afterwards, 
then  the  bride  and  groom  were  to  leave  by  the  mail 
for  Southampton  en  route  for  Miraflores  in  Northern 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  57 

France.  The  two  young  men  drove  together  to  the 
chapel  attached  to  the  Alberian  Embassy.  Not  a 
word  passed  between  them,  but  Reckage,  under  his 
eyehds,  examined  every  detail  of  his  friend's  attire. 
He  wondered  at  its  satisfactoriness  on  the  whole,  inas- 
much as  Orange  had  not  seen  fit  to  consult  him  on 
the  point.  The  church  was  small  and  grey  and  sombre  : 
the  flowers  on  the  altar  (sent  by  his  lordship)  were  all 
white  ;  their  perfume  filled  the  building. 

"  They  look  very  nice,"  said  Reckage,  "  and  in  ex- 
cellent taste.  Some  of  these  old  pictures  on  the  wall 
are  uncommonly  good,  and  I  particularly  like  that 
bronze  crucifix.  Ten  to  one  if  it  isn't  genuine  eleventh 
century.  I  will  ask  the  old  fellow  afterwards.  He's 
a  dear.  His  Latin  is  lovely.  It's  an  artistic  pleasure 
to  hear  him  read  the  Gospel.  I  looked  in  the  other 
morning,  just  to  get  the  run,  as  it  were,  of  the  place. 
By  Jove!     Here  they  are." 

Pens6e  Fitz  Rewes  came  first — very  graceful  in 
lavender  silk,  and  accompanied  by  her  little  boy,  who 
showed  by  an  unconscious  anxiety  of  expression  that 
he  felt  instinctively  his  mother's  air  of  contentment 
was  assumed.  Then  Baron  Zeuill — with  Brigit  on 
his  arm — followed.  The  Baron  looked  grave — too 
grave  for  the  happy  circumstances.  Brigit  seemed  as 
pale  as  the  lilies  on  the  altar;  she  was  less  beautiful 
but  more  ethereal  than  usual.  There  was  something 
frail,  transparent,  unsubstantial  about  her  that  day 
which  Robert  had  never  noticed  before.  Had  the 
many  emotional  strains  of  the  last  year  tried  her  deli- 
cate youth  beyond  endurance  ?  She  seemed  very 
childish,  too,  and  immature.  She  took  Orange's  hand 
when  he  met  her,  held  it  closely,  and  watched  the 
others  with  a  kind  of  wonder  most  pitiful  to  witness 
— as  though  she  had  suffered  too  much  from  her  con- 


58  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

tact  with  life  and  could  no  more.  Her  eyes  seemed 
darker  than  the  sapphires  to  which  Robert  had  so 
often  compared  them  :  this  effect,  he  told  himself,  was 
due  to  the  strong  contrast  given  by  the  pallor  of  her 
face.  It  was  quite  clear,  however,  that  she  was  not 
under  the  influence  then  of  any  dominant  thought. 
Her  nerves  and  senses  were  strained  to  that  extreme 
tension  resembling  apathy,  until  the  vibration  given 
by  some  touch  or  tone  sets  the  whole  system  trembling 
with  all  the  spiritual  and  bodily  forces  which  make 
the  mystery  of  human  life.  She  spoke  her  responses, 
signed  the  register,  and  walked  out,  from  the  church 
on  Robert's  arm  without  a  single  change  of  coun- 
tenance or  token  of  feeling.  As  they  drove  away 
from  the  church,  she  flushed  a  little  and  drew  far 
back,  with  a  new  timidity,  into  her  corner.  One  look 
she  gave  of  perfect  love  and  confidence.  She  pressed 
his  hand  and  held  it,  for  a  moment  against  her  cheek. 
But  neither  of  them  spoke.  And  indeed,  what  was 
there  to  be  said  ?  The  identification  of  their  two 
minds  had  been  full  and  absolute  from  the  moment  of 
their  first  encounter  long  ago  in  Chambord.  The 
accidental  differences  of  sex  and  age,  training,  accom- 
plishments, and  education  had  not  affected — and  could 
not  affect — a  sympathy  in  temperament  which  de- 
pended— not  on  the  similarity  of  opinions — but  on  a 
similarity  of  moral  fibre.  Many  forms  can  be  cut,  by 
the  same  hand,  from  the  same  piece  of  marble,  and 
although  one  may  be  a  grotesque  and  the  other  a 
cross,  one  a  pursuing  goddess  and  the  other  an  angel 
for  a  tomb,  the  same  substance,  light,  touch,  and 
colour  will  be  characteristic  of  all  four.  Marriage,  at 
best,  could  but  give  a  certain  crude  emphasis  to  the 
strange  spiritual  bond  which  united  these  two  beings. 
Practical  as  they  both  were  in  the   common  affairs  of 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  59 

life,  they  shrank  from  anything  which  would  promise 
to  materialise  the  subtleties  of  the  mind.  Some 
thoughts,  they  felt,  were  as  impalpable  as  sounds, 
and,  just  as  music  ceases  to  be  divine  when  it  is 
poured  out  of  some  mechanical  contrivance,  so  the 
mysteries  of  the  human  soul  become  mere  bodily  con- 
ditions— more  or  less  humiliating — when  demon- 
strated, catalogued,  and  legalised.  There  is  nothing 
modern  nor  uncommon  in  this  especial  disposition. 
One  may  describe  it  as  ascetic,  anaemic,  sentimental, 
hysterical,  neurotic  ;  but  the  men  and  women  who 
possess  this  fragile  organism  show,  as  a  rule,  powers  of 
endurance  and  a  strength  of  will  by  no  means  charac- 
teristic of  the  average  sanguine  and  sensual  creature 
who  eats,  drinks,  fights,  loves,  and  does  his  best  in  a 
world  which  he  calls  vile  yet  would  not  renounce  for 
all  the  ecstasies  of  Paradise. 

The  carriage  wheels  rolled  on — as  swift  and  noise- 
less as  the  sand  in  an  hour-glass.  Why  was  the  road 
so  short?  Why  could  they  not  be  carried  thus  for 
ever,  tranquil  with  happiness,  wanting  nothing,  seek- 
ing nothing,  bound  no-whither  ?  Foolish  questions  and 
a  foolish  longing  :  yet  happiness  consists  in  being  able 
to  formulate  wishes  with  the  serene  knowledge  that 
a  better  wisdom  directs  their  fulfilment.  Neither 
passers-by  nor  other  vehicles,  neither  houses  nor  streets 
caught  the  entranced  attention  of  these  young  lovers. 
The  delight  of  being  purely  self-absorbed  is  very  great 
and  intoxicating  to  those  who  are  constantly — either 
by  desire  or  the  force  of  circumstances— unselfish.  A 
faint  flush  swept  into  Brigit's  face  under  the  effect  of 
an  experience  so  novel.  Their  twofold  consciousness 
had  all  the  pathos  of  self-effacement,  and  all  the  thrill 
of  satisfied  egoism.  Such  instants  cannot  last,  and 
they  are  shortest  when  one's  habits  of  thought  are 


6o  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

antagonistic  to  such  luxury.  Brigit  sighed  deeply, 
and  roused  herself  with  a  painful  sense  that  the  minute 
she  wilfully  cut  short  had  been  the  sweetest  in  her  life. 

"  Pens6e,"  she  said,  "  has  been  so  kind  to  me.  She 
gave  me  her  room  at  Wight  House  last  night.  She 
had  the  little  dressing-room  just  off  it.  Did  you 
notice  her  dress?  She  was  very  anxious  that  you 
should  like  it." 

"  She  seemed  all  right,"  said  Robert  ;  "  and  wasn't 
Reckage  splendid  ?  " 

Having  spoilt  their  perfect  moment,  they  became 
as  mere  mortals,  more  at  ease  in  this  planet,  where 
complete  joy  has  an  unfamiliar  mien.  Brigit's  actual 
physical  beauty  returned.  The  sunshine  stole  in  at 
the  open  window  and  lit  up  her  golden  hair,  which  was 
half  hidden  by  a  hat  with  white  plumes.  She  looked 
down  at  her  hand  with  its  new  wedding  ring,  and  was 
pleasantly  aware  of  Robert's  admiration. 

"  I  am  so  glad,"  she  exclaimed,  "  that  you  think 
my  hand  is  nice.  Because  I  have  given  it  to  you  for 
all  time.  And  if  you  are  ever  tired,  or  discouraged, 
or  unhappy,  or  lonely,  and  you  want  me,  I  shall  come 
to  you." 

''  But  you  will  be  with  me  now  always." 

"Yes,"  she  answered.     "Yes,  Robert,  always." 

They  had  now  reached  Almouth  House.  Her  little 
foot,  with  its  arched  instep,  seemed  too  slight  and  del- 
icate for  the  pavement.  Robert  knew  that  her  arm 
rested  upon  his,  because  he  felt  it  trembling.  They 
crossed  the  threshold  together.  The  doors  closed 
after  them. 

"And  he  never  once  kissed  her  on  the  way  from 
church  !  "  exclaimed  the  footman. 

But  the  coachman  did  not  think  this  very  peculiar. 
"  I  don't  hold  with  kissing,"  said  he ;  "  to  my  mind 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  6i 

there's  nothing  in  it.  Kissing  is  for  boys  and  gals — 
not  for  men  and  wives." 

Baron  Zeuill  was  unable  to  join  them  all  at  break- 
fast, but  Pens^e,  and  Reckage,  and  Angelo  Rennes 
(who  had  been  especially  invited  the  night  before  be- 
cause he  had  proved  so  entertaining),  did  more  than 
their  duty  as  friends  by  talking  feverishly,  eating  im- 
moderately, and  affecting  the  conventional  joyousness 
universally  thought  proper  at  such  times.  Pens^e 
ventured  to  make  a  reference  to  the  forthcoming 
marriage  of  the  "  best  man,"  and  expressed  the  falter- 
ing hope  that  "  dear  Agnes  would  be  as  happy  as  dear 
Brigit."  Reckage  scowled.  Rennes  was  seized  with 
a  fit  of  coughing.  It  was  the  one  unlucky  hit  in  the 
whole  conversation,  and  it  was  soon  forgotten  by 
every  one  present  except  Orange,  who  remembered  it 
frequently  in  later  days.  At  last  the  hour  for  depart- 
ure came.  Pens6e,  weeping,  kissed  Brigit  on  both 
cheeks,  looked  into  her  grave  eyes  long  and  lovingly, 
put  her  arms  around  the  slight,  girlish  form  with  that 
exquisite,  indefinable  tenderness,  unconscious,  unpre- 
meditated, and  protective,  which  married  women 
show  toward  very  youthful  brides.  Robert  handed 
his  wife  into  the  brougham,  the  order  was  given  "  To 
Waterloo,"  the  horses  started,  rice  and  slippers  were 
thrown. 

"  They  go  into  the  world  for  the  first  time,"  ex- 
claimed Rennes. 

Then  Pens^e  was  assisted  into  the  barouche,  and 
drove  homewards. 

"  We  shall  meet  again,"  she  said,  as  she  parted  from 
Reckage;  "  we  meet  at  Sara's  at  lunch." 

The  two  men  were  thus  left  alone.  They  decided 
to  smoke,  for  they  were  both  a  little  affected  by  the 
pathos  of  the  situation. 


62  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

"  Explain  Robert,"  said  his  lordship,  as  they  re- 
turned to  the  dining-room,  "  explain  that  kind  of  love. 
You  are  an  artist." 

"  Well,  it  isn't  my  way,"  rejoined  the  other,  with  a 
forced  laugh,  "  but  there  are  many  manifestations  of 
personal  magnetism." 

"  This  kind  is  very  interesting,"  said  Reckage, 
"  although  it  is,  of  course,  high-flown.  Orange  is 
romantic  and  scrupulous — he  knows  next  to  nothing 
of  the  sensual  life ;  and  that  next  to  nothing  is  merely 
a  source  of  disgust  and  remorse.     You  follow  me?" 

"Perfectly,"  said  Rennes.  "It  is  a  question  of 
temperament.  The  wonder  is  that  he  has  not  entered, 
in  some  delirium  of  renunciation,  the  priesthood." 

"  That  would  mean,  for  his  gifts,  a  closed  career. 
It  bests  my  wits  to  guess  how  this  marriage  will  turn 
out.  He  is  madly  in  love.  He  has  suffered  fright- 
fully. Too  much  moral  anguish  has  a  depraving  effect 
in  the  long  run." 

"  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that," 

"  I  think  so,  at  any  rate.  Now  many  a  decent  sort 
of  fellow  can  get  along  well  enough — if  he  has  a 
woman  to  his  taste  and  wine  which  he  considers  good. 
You  observe  I  condense  the  situation  as  much  as 
possible.     But  Orange  is  different." 

"  Not  so  different — except  in  degree,  or  experience. 
At  present,  he  oscillates  between  the  woe  of  love  and 
the  joy  of  life.  You  compared  him  to  St.  Augustine. 
St.  Augustine  never  pretended  that  earthly  happiness 
was  a  delusion.  He  knew  better.  He  said,  *  Do  not 
trust  it,  but  seek  the  happiness  which  hath  no  end.' 
Personally,  I  can  accept  with  gratitude  as  much  as  I 
can  get.  '  Is  not  the  life  of  men  upon  earth  all  trial, 
without  any  interval?'  This  may  be;  yet  it  is  some- 
thing to  learn  how  to   sympathise  with   happiness. 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  63 

Our  best  men  and  women  devote  themselves  too  ex- 
clusively to  the  diagnosis  of  misery." 

"  You  have  thought  a  lot,  I  can  see,"  said  Reckage. 

The  artist  gave  him  a  quick,  friendly  glance. 

"  I  have  played  the  fool,"  said  he,  "  I  envy  Orange. 
He  will  know  things  that  I  can  never  know — now. 
I  haven't  lived  up  to  my  thoughts.  I  am  not  remorse- 
ful— I  don't  believe  in  remorse.  It  is  a  thing  for  the 
half-hearted.  But  if  I  am  not  sad,  I  am  not  especially 
gay.  The  middle  course  between  sentimentality  and 
gallantry  seems  to  me  intimately  immoral  and  ridicu- 
lous into  the  bargain.  So  I  am  an  idealist  with 
senses.  There  are  times  when  I  hate  life.  And  why? 
Because  life  is  evil?  By  no  means,  but  because  we 
tell  lies  about  it,  and  write  lies  about  it,  from  morning 
till  night." 

"  You  seem  a  bit  depressed,"  said  Lord  Reckage. 
"But,  by-the-bye,  how  is  the  portrait  going?  My 
brother  Hercy,  who  paints  a  little,  always  declared 
that  Agnes  was  unpaintable.  Do  you  find  her  un- 
paintable  ?  " 

♦'  No,"  said  Rennes ;  "  oh  no !  " 


64  ROBERT  ORANGE. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

When  Reckage  asked  Rennes  whether  he  found 
Miss  Carillon  "  unpaintable,"  the  artist  was  conscious 
of  a  swift,  piercing  emotion,  which  passed,  indeed,  but 
left  an  ache.  And,  as  the  day  advanced,  the  smart  of 
the  wound  grew  more  intense.  A  visit  to  the  National 
Gallery,  a  call  at  his  tailor's,  an  inspection  of  maps  at 
his  club,  afforded  little  relief  to  the  indefinable  misery. 
He  was  tortured  by  the  disingenuousness  of  his  own 
mind.  He  had  done  so  much,  and  thought  so  much, 
and  read  so  much  ;  he  could  give  so  many  scientific 
reasons  for  each  idea  and  each  movement  of  his  mental 
and  physical  being,  that  the  joy  of  life  had  been  cut 
up  in  its  machinery.  He  had  lost  the  power  of  being 
natural  either  in  his  pains  or  his  pleasures.  He  knew 
all  the  answers,  but  not  one  of  the  questions  which 
trouble  youth.  He  had  never  wondered  at  anything. 
Wonder — the  lovely  mistress  of  wisdom — had  taught 
him  none  of  her  secrets.  Dead  certainty  had  dogged 
his  steps  from  his  first  appearance  on  this  unknowable 
world.  Once,  when  a  very  little  boy,  he  admired  a 
vase  full  of  pink  roses.  "  They  will  keep  twice  as 
long,"  said  his  nurse,  "  in  dirty  water.  It  is  such  a 
waste  to  put  fresh  water  on  roses  ! "  This  remark — 
slight  in  itself — remained  in  his  memory  as  the  first 
truth — the  Logos,  in  fact — from  which  all  other  truths 
generated.  He  was  now  three-and-forty  :  he  had  ex- 
ecuted an  abnormal  amount  of  work,  and  he  had  a 
just   reputation    as  a  portrait-painter.     His  technical 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  65 

skill  was  considered  unique.  The  something  lacking 
was  that  mysteriousness  which  belongs  to  all  great  art, 
and  is,  essentially,  in  life. 

*'  Rennes,"  said  one  of  his  friends,  "  can  work  for 
sixteen  hours  a  day.  It  is  all  taken  from  without. 
He  gives  nothing  except  his  undivided  attention." 
The  saying  was  not  true :  he  gave  himself  absolutely 
— soul,  brain,  and  heart — to  his  task,  but  the  gift  was 
too  premeditated,  too  accurately  weighed.  There 
was  no  self-abandonment,  nor  self-forgetfulness.  His 
admiration  for  Miss  Carillon  had  been  of  this  kind. 
Having  added  up  her  attractions,  her  figure,  her  face, 
her  youth,  her  intelligence,  her  grace,  he  decided  that 
she  was  exceptional  in  many  ways.  He  found  real 
happiness  in  her  society — she  was  so  sane,  so  clear,  so 
unaffected.  His  attitude  toward  her  had  remained  for 
some  time  one  of  fraternal  affection,  partly  by  force  of 
will,  chiefly,  because  his  relations  with  other  women 
were  not  so  restrained.  But  the  position  was  chang- 
ing. Certain  forces  in  life  were  assuming  for  him  a 
complicated  and  threatening  aspect.  What  if,  after 
all,  there  was  an  incalculable  element  in  man  ? 

"  Now  to  be  practical,"  he  said  to  himself.  He  had 
not  seen  his  mother  for  a  fortnight.  She  lived  in 
Kensington  Square.  "  I  must  really  go  and  see  my 
mother!"  The  cab  drove  quickly:  the  little  grey 
house  was  soon  reached.  Angelo  opened  the  door 
with  his  latch-key  and  rushed  up-stairs  into  the  small 
drawing-room,  furnished  in  white  and  green,  with 
fresh  flowers  on  the  mantelpiece,  and  many  shelves  of 
vellum-bound  books.  A  bronze  lamp  hung  from  the 
ceiling,  and  its  globe,  covered  in  violet  silk,  cast  a 
light  like  that  of  the  early  dawn  in  hilly  regions.  A 
faint  odour  of  lavender  filled  the  air.  In  one  corner 
of  the  room  there  was  a  chess-table  with  its  chessmen 
5 


66  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

showing  an  interrupted  game.  A  velvet  footstool, 
much  indented  by  the  pressure  of  a  firm  foot,  stood  in 
front  of  the  carved  armchair  in  which  Mrs.  Rennes 
usually  sat.  Her  work-basket,  lined  with  blue  satin 
and  shining  with  steel  fittings,  stood  in  its  customary 
place  on  a  gypsy  stool  near  the  fireplace.  A  few  old 
English  prints  hung  on  the  walls,  and  between  the 
windows  there  was  a  Chippendale  cabinet  filled  with 
Worcester  and  Crown  Derby  china.  The  aspect  of 
all  things  was  restful,  emotionless,  and  some  of  its 
calm  seemed  to  overtake  and  soothe  Angelo's  agitated 
spirit.  He  sat  down  at  the  piano  and  played,  with 
much  passion,  bits  from  Wagner's  Tristan,  the  first 
performance  of  which  he  had  seen  at  Munich.  "  Good 
Heavens  !  "  he  thought.  "  What  a  genius  !  What  a 
soul !  What  a  phrase  !  "  Suddenly  the  door  opened 
and  Agnes  Carillon  was  ushered  in.  She  hesitated  a 
second,  and  then  recognised  Angelo,  who  had  his  back 
to  the  light.  Her  first  instinct  was  to  retreat;  her 
first  feeling  was  a  strange  sensation  of  pleasure  and 
fear.  His  usually  cold  and  wearied  face  took  an  ex- 
pression of  controlled  but  unmistakable  delight.  She 
blushed,  though  not  with  resentment,  yet  she  avoided, 
by  appearing  to  have  some  difficulty  with  her  muff, 
his  outstretched  hand. 

"  I  have  called  on  your  mother,"  said  she.  "  I 
thought  you  would  be  on  your  way  to  Rome." 

Her  lips  were  red  and  rather  full :  her  cheeks  were 
pink,  her  throat  and  brows  were  white.  Her  de- 
meanour was,  while  modest,  neither  shy  nor  self-con- 
scious. Angelo  was  struck  by  her  height  and  the  ex- 
treme slightness  of  her  figure.  She  wore  a  large  Gains- 
borough hat  with  long  plumes,  a  black  gown,  and  a 
collar  of  old  point  de  Venice.  She  had  come  up  from 
the  country,  and  her  presence  brought  its  freshness. 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  67 

**  Why  are  you  in  town  ?  "  he  asked  abruptly. 

"  I  was  bored  at  home." 

"  And  the  trousseau  ?  " 

"The  trousseau?"  she  said,  lifting  her  eyes  for  the 
first  time  to  his. 

"  They  say  it  is  unlucky  to  try  on  your  wedding- 
dress,"  he  continued,  seeking  relief  in  the  very  torture 
of  reminding  himself  that  the  date  of  her  marriage 
with  Lord  Reckage  was  fixed. 

"  I  never  think  about  luck,"  she  answered. 

"  I  met  Reckage  at  the  play  last  night.  I  lunched 
with  him  to-day,"  said  Rennes. 

"  I  am  so  glad  that  you  are  friends.  I  want  you  to 
like  him." 

"  No  doubt  he  thinks  me  mad.  Politicians  always 
regard  artists  as  madmen." 

"  But  Beauclerk  is  considered  very  cultured.  I  hate 
the  word.     He  is  interested  in  art." 

"  No  doubt — as  a  means  of  investment,  an  educa- 
tional influence,  or  a  topic  of  conversation  for  light 
moments." 

"  You  are  severe.     Yet  I  like  to  hear  you  talk." 

She  hoped  that  his  talk  would  drown  the  singing  in 
her  heart,  the  whispering  in  her  ears,  the  footsteps  of 
doubt — doubt  of  herself,  doubt  of  Reckage,  coming 
nearer  and  nearer.  She  had  been  taught  everything. 
She  had  discovered  nothing.  Love  itself  had  come  to 
her  in  the  shape  of  a  cruel  code  of  responsibilities. 
Lately  she  had  been  dwelling  with  an  almost  feverish 
emphasis  on  the  question  of  duty.  She  had  wearied 
Reckage:  she  had  exhausted  herself  by  the  tenacity  of 
her  mind  toward  that  dull  subject.  And  the  real  truth 
about  much  in  life  was  forcing  itself  upon  her.  She 
was  essentially  a  woman  of  affairs.  Her  face  absorbed 
the  poetry  of  her  nature,  just  as  a  flower  extracts  every 


68  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

excellence  from  its  surrounding  soil,  and,  shining  out 
for  the  sun,  wastes  no  blossom  underground.  It  had 
been  her  earliest  ambition  to  marry  a  Member  of  Par- 
liament and  help  him — by  her  prayers  and  counsel — 
on  his  conscientious  career  toward  Downing  Street. 
She  had  received  an  austere  education,  and  even  her 
native  generosity  of  heart  could  not  soften  the  indig- 
nation she  had  been  trained  to  feel  against  any  neglect 
of  duty.  Duty  was  a  term  which  she  applied  to  that 
science  of  things  generally  expedient  which  tradition 
has  presented  to  us  in  the  household  proverbs  and 
maxims  of  every  nation.  Early  rising,  controlling 
one's  temper,  paying  one's  debts,  consideration  for 
others,  working  while  it  is  day,  taking  stitches  in  time 
— all  these  to  that  orthodox  mind  were  matters  of  im- 
perative obligation,  if  not  Divine  command.  Angelo's 
impulsive  nature  and  self-indulgent  habits  filled  her 
with  overwhelming  sorrow  and  dismay.  She  could 
not  understand  the  rapid  changes  of  mood,  the  dis- 
ordered views,  the  storm  and  violence  which  are  char- 
acteristic of  every  artist  whose  work  is  a  form  of 
autobiography  rather  than  a  presentment  of  imper- 
sonal forms  and  effects. 

In  Rennes  there  were  two  principles  constantly  at 
work:  the  Angelo  who  acted,  and  the  Angelo  who 
observed,  criticised,  and  reproduced  in  allegorical  guise, 
the  inspiring  performance.  Agnes  knew  nothing  of 
this  common  phenomenon  in  creative  genius,  and 
when  her  friend  refreshed  his  imagination  by  appearing 
in  a  new  role,  she  was  as  terrified  as  a  child  before 
some  clever  trick  in  experimental  chemistry.  From 
time  to  time  he  expressed  opinions  which  startled  her. 
She  begged  him  once  to  paint  a  "  religious  "  picture. 
He  would  not.  A  feeling  that  she  had  experienced 
some  bitter  disappointment  weighed  upon  her  spirit. 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  69 

Yet  when  she  seemed  to  give  that  disappointment  a 
cause,  she  was  careful  to  leave  it  in  obscurity.  She 
would  not  permit  herself  to  think,  and,  pale  with 
suffering,  she  would  check  the  painful  questions  which 
rose  already  answered.  Her  affection  for  Rennes  was 
one  of  those  serious  passions  which  sometimes  take 
root  in  an  unsentimental  nature,  and  derive  a  strength 
from  philosophy  which  romantic  considerations, 
pleasant  as  they  are,  can  never  bestow.  Romance  will 
add  a  magical  delight  to  the  pleasures  of  existence, 
but  for  the  burden  of  the  day  one  needs  a  sobriety  of 
thought  which  would  ring  singularly  flat  in  a  love-lyric, 
which  is  certainly  opposed  to  those  emotions  which 
produce  what  is  commonly  regarded  as  interesting 
behaviour.  Agnes  had  not  been  drawn  to  Rennes  at 
first  sight,  but  rather  by  degrees  and  against  her 
better  judgment.  She  had  found  him  unstable  and 
affected  ;  on  the  other  hand,  she  admired  his  fine 
figure,  his  talent,  his  conversation,  and  the  fire  in  his 
brilliant  eyes.  She  told  herself  that  she  was  deeply 
anxious  about  his  soul,  but,  in  a  crowd,  she  watched 
for  his  broad  shoulders  and  his  handsome  face.  Such 
was  her  friendship,  and  she  had  known  him  for  two 
years.  Her  first  season  had  been  a  startling  success. 
She  had  the  misery  of  rejecting  several  suitors  of 
whom  her  father  fully  approved — one  was  an  Arch- 
deacon. She  had  been  drawn  more  than  kindly  toward 
a  consumptive  violinist  whom  she  had  met  at  a  Satur- 
day entertainment  for  the  poor  at  Kensal  Green.  Not 
a  single  word  of  love  ever  passed  between  them.  He 
called  once  or  twice  at  her  aunt's  house  in  Chester 
Square,  and  they  had  played  together  some  of  Corelli's 
sonatas.  Her  aunt  carried  her  away  to  Brighton,  and 
no  more  was  heard  of  the  young  violinist  till  a  rumour 
reached  them  that  he  was  drinking  himself  to  death  at 


70  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

St.  Moritz.  Agnes  said  many  prayers  for  him.  At  last 
a  second  rumour  reached  her  that  the  first  was  wholly 
incorrect.  He  had  married  a  very  nice  girl  with  a  lot 
of  money  and  was  building  a  villa  at  Cannes.  Agnes 
told  herself  that  she  was  thankful  to  hear  it.  The 
next  year  she  became  engaged  to  a  young  Member  of 
Parliament  with  really  fine  prospects.  She  was  not  in 
love,  but  she  liked  him  better  than  all  her  friends.  She 
felt  serene,  and  at  last  useful.  Then  a  story  reached 
her  about  another  woman,  and  yet  another  woman 
before  that  one.  The  story  was  true  and  not  at  all 
pretty.  The  Bishop  was  obliged  to  support  his 
daughter  in  her  refusal  to  regard  matters  in  what  her 
betrothed  described  as  a  sane  and  reasonable  manner. 
He  had  sinned  and  he  was  sorry,  and  what  was  more, 
he  had  every  desire  to  reform.  But  Agnes  remained 
firm,  although  she  had  probably  never  been  so  nearly 
in  love  with  him  as  she  was  on  the  day  when  she  re- 
turned all  his  charming  letters  and  the  ring  and  his 
photograph.  It  was  a  trying  moment.  She  was 
ordered  abroad,  and  she  spent  the  winter  at  Rome, 
where  she  read  ancient  history  and  visited  churches 
and  excited  a  great  deal  of  admiration.  Mrs.  Rennes 
and  Angelo  were  also  at  Rome.  The  three  met  at 
the  house  of  an  irreproachable  Marquesa.  They 
became  friends.  Miss  Carillon's  aunt,  who  was  a 
maiden  lady  with  means,  succumbed  to  the  fascinat- 
ing eloquence  of  an  amateur  connoisseur  of  antique 
gems.  In  her  new  character  of  fiaticde,  she  found  it 
inconvenient  to  chaperon  a  young  niece.  She  joined 
a  widowed  friend,  and  gladly  assented  to  the  sugges- 
tion that  dear  Agnes  should  visit  Mrs.  Rennes  in  Paris. 
The  Bishop  saw  no  impediment  to  the  plan.  He  had 
been  at  Oxford  with  the  late  Archbishop  Rennes,  an 
odd   fellow  but  high-minded.     Mrs.  Rennes  was  the 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  71 

daughter  of  a  General  Hughes-Drummond.  Every 
one  knew  the  Hughes-Drummonds.  They  were  very 
good  people  indeed.  The  Bishop  hoped  that  Agnes 
would  enjoy  herself,  give  her  kind  friend  as  little 
trouble  as  possible,  and  come  home  fully  restored  in 
spirits.  He  forgot  Angelo.  It  may  be  that  others 
omitted  to  mention  him.  The  Bishop  was  not  pleased 
when  the  rumour  reached  him  that  this  artist  was 
included  in  the  party.  What  were  his  habits  ?  What 
were  his  prospects?  Were  his  artistic  talents  such 
that  he  might  reasonably  hope  to  become  a  Royal 
Academician  and  maintain  an  establishment?  What 
class  of  pictures  did  he  paint  ?  Were  they  lofty  in 
tone?  Did  they  exalt  and  purify  the  mind  ?  Would 
they  make  good  engravings — such  engravings  as  one 
might  hang  on  one's  walls?  The  correspondence 
and  the  questions  were  endless.  Angelo  spent  a  week 
end  at  the  Episcopal  Palace,  and  behaved  so  well  that 
he  became  frightened  at  his  own  capabilities  for  John 
Bullism.  He  was  a  little  annoyed,  too,  to  find  him- 
self at  ease  in  a  British  home  circle.  The  Bishop 
was,  at  all  events,  satisfied.  Agnes  was  enchanted, 
and,  transfigured  by  unconscious  passion,  looked  more 
beautiful  than  ever.  Angelo  enjoyed  the  services  in 
the  cathedral ;  he  liked  the  quiet  Sunday  afternoon, 
he  was  impressed  by  Dr.  Carillon's  real  earnestness  in 
the  pulpit.  The  visit  was  a  great  success.  Before  he 
left,  he  begged  Agnes  to  write  to  him  "  when  she 
could  spare  the  time."  The  young  man  had  tried 
everything  except  a  Platonic  friendship  with  a  lovely 
girl.  He  fancied  that  he  found  in  Agnes  Carillon  that 
purity  coupled  with  magnetism  which  makes  such  ex- 
periments attractive.  They  corresponded  regularly, 
but  they  did  not  meet  again  for  several  months. 
When  he  returned,  a  little  tired  of  platonism,  letter- 


^2  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

writing,  intellectuality,  and  longing  a  great  deal  for 
the  sight  of  her  face,  he  found  her  engaged  to  Lord 
Reckage.  So  nature  revenges  itself.  He  detected  a 
certain  triumph  and  also  a  certain  deep  reproach  in 
her  gaze.  She  insisted  that  she  was  more  than  happy, 
but  something  under  these  words  seemed  to  murmur 
— "You  have  spoilt  our  lives."  Her  manner,  never- 
theless, never  altered.  She  was  invariably  sympa- 
thetic, gracious,  delicately  emotional.  In  letters 
she  signed  herself,  "  Yours  affectionately,  Agnes 
Carillon." 

"  How  I  should  like  to  paint  you  in  this  light !  "  he 
said,  all  at  once.  "  That  is  the  dress  I  love  best. 
Don't  wear  it  often."  The  remark  was  slight  enough 
as  a  pretty  speech  within  the  bounds  of  flirtation,  but 
the  tone  in  which  he  uttered  it  meant  more,  and  the 
girl's  womanly  instinct  told  her  that  the  dangerous 
limit  in  their  "  friendship "  had  been  reached.  He 
saw  her  turn  pale.  She  looked  away  from  him,  and 
swallowed  thoughts  which  were  far  more  bitter  than 
any  words  she  could  have  spoken. 

"  You  never  used  to  say  these  things,"  she  exclaimed 
at  last ;  "  why  do  you  say  them  now  ?  " 

"  I  thought  them — always,"  he  answered.  "  But  I 
am  a  Pagan.  I  tried  to  keep  my  Paganism  for  others, 
and,  what  you  would  call  '  the  best  in  me  ' — for  you. 
You  may  be  able  to  understand.  Anyhow,  I  made  a 
mistake — a  terrible  mistake.  It  was  a  false  position, 
and  I  couldn't  maintain  it.  Now  I  don't  even  want 
to  maintain  it.  Then  it  was  a  kind  of  vanity.  I 
mean  that  time  when  I  was  at  the  Palace.  I  had 
been  reading  a  lot  of  beautiful  unreal  stuff  about  the 
soul.  I  thought  I  had  reached  a  very  high  place. 
Of  course  I  had — because  nothing  is  higher  or  purer 
than  real  human  love.     But  I  wouldn't  call  it  love. 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  73 

So  I  went  abroad,  and  wrote  any  amount  of  'litera- 
ture' to  you.  And  all  the  time  Reckage  was  here — 
asking  you,  wisely  enough,  to  marry  him.  And  you 
— wisely  enough,  accepted  him." 

Agnes  sat  still,  with  her  eyes  down,  cold,  silent, 
forbidding.  She  did  not  understand  him.  She  had 
neither  the  knowledge  of  life,  nor  the  imagination, 
which  could  make  such  understanding  possible.  But 
she  saw  in  his  look  that  he  loved  her,  that  he  was  un- 
happy. She  knew  that  Reckage  had  never  shown  so 
much  feeling.  Yet  had  she  not  given  her  word  to 
Reckage?  Was  it  not  irrevocable?  Was  Rennes 
behaving  well  in  speaking  out — too  late?  Was  it 
too  late?  A  torrent  of  questions  poured  into  her 
mind.  She  dragged  off  her  gloves,  and  spread  out  her 
hands,  which  were  slim  and  white,  and  stared  at  her 
sapphire  engagement  ring. 

"A  weak  man  submits  to  destiny,"  said  Rennes,  "a 
strong  one  makes  his  own.  It  is  what  we  think  of 
ourselves  which  determines  our  fate.  If  I  regard  my- 
self as  a  poor  creature,  I  shall,  no  doubt,  act  the  part 
of  a  poor  creature.  But,"  he  added,  with  an  ironical 
smile,  **  it  is  never  too  late  to  give  up  one's  prejudices. 
I  can't  stand  by  and  look  on  any  longer.  I  intend  to 
leave  England  for  some  years.  I  hope  we  may  never 
meet  again.  Don't  answer  me,  because  there  is  noth- 
ing for  you  to  say.  You  have  been  perfectly  kind, 
perfectly  charming,  perfectly  consistent.  You  have 
never  deceived  me  and  you  have  never  deceived  your- 
self." 

She  interrupted  him : 

"  I  hope  not.  Oh,  I  hope  I  have  never  deceived 
myself — or  you." 

"  I  was  grateful  for  your  friendship,"  he  said.  "  I 
can't  be  grateful  for  it  now." 


74  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

Agnes  drew  a  long  breath  and  murmured  random 
words  about  the  "  time.  "     Was  it  getting  late  ? 

"Yes,"  replied  Rennes,  "too  late.  Did  I  ever  tell 
you  why  my  father,  with  all  his  prospects,  became  a 
drawing-master?  He  told  me  that  he  had  suffered  so 
much  learning  why  he  could  never  paint,  nor  hope  to 
paint,  that  he  was  determined  to  devote  his  knowledge 
to  the  service  of  apprentices.  It  seemed  to  him  such 
an  awful  thing  to  mistake  one's  vocation.  Now  I  feel 
that  one  of  us — perhaps  both  of  us,  you  and  I,  are 
doing  even  a  worse  thing.  We  are  deliberately  throw- 
ing happiness  to  the  dogs." 

"  I  don't  think  so,"  said  Agnes,  in  a  trembling 
voice.  "  There  is  duty,  you  know  ;  that  is  something 
higher  than  happiness,  I  believe." 

"  Are  you  so  sure  ?  " 

"Oh,  yes!" 

"  I  envy  you.  I  don't  even  know  what  you  mean 
by  duty.  It  seems  to  me  another  name  for  the 
tyranny  of  false  sentiment." 

"  Don't  disturb  my  ideas,"  she  exclaimed,  with  an 
appealing  gesture.  "  Don't  say  these  things.  They 
make  me  wretched.  I  can't  afford  to  doubt  and 
question.  One  must  have  a  few  permanent  rules  of 
conduct." 

"  But  if  they  are  fantastic,  capricious,  insincere?" 

"  I  can't  argue.  I  am  not  clever.  I  will  not  change 
my  views.     I  dare  not.     It  would  make  me  hate  you." 

"You  are  the  slave  of  convention." 

"  That  may  be.  That  is  safer,  after  all,  than  being 
the  slave  of  some  other  will  stronger  than  my  own. 
Why  do  you  try  to  disturb  my  life — now — after  so 
many  really  happy  months  of  friendship?" 

"  Were  they  so  happy  ?     Agnes,  were  they  happy  ?  " 

She  hesitated. 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  75 

"Yes,"  she  said,  at  last ;  "  relatively,  yes." 

"  It  is  quite  true.  Good  women  drive  us  to  the  bad 
ones." 

"  Oh  !  what  can  you  mean  ?  Surely  we  are  saying 
too  much.  We  shall  reproach  ourselves  later.  I  live, 
again  and  again,  through  one  conversation.  The 
phrases  come  into  my  mind  with  every  possible  shade 
of  significance." 

She  pushed  back  her  hat,  and  pressed  her  hand  to  her 
brow,  which  was  contracting  nervously  as  she  spoke. 

"  I  don't  wish  to  be  altered  by  any  change  in  prin- 
ciple," she  continued,  "  nor  distracted,  from  my  plain 
obligations,  into  other  interests.  I  daresay  I  sound 
quite  heartless  and  odd.  I  daresay  you  won't  like  me 
any  more."  Her  voice  faltered,  but  her  lips  remained 
precise.  "  But  one  must  know  one's  mind — one  must. 
You  don't  know  yours ;  that  is  the  whole  trouble, 
Angelo." 

She  had  never  called  him  by  his  Christian  name 
before,  and  now  the  forced  sternness  of  her  tone  gave 
it  almost  the  accent  of  a  farewell. 

"  Perhaps  we  have  helped  each  other,"  she  went 
on ;  "  at  all  events,  you  have  taught  me  how  to  look 
at  things.  You  are  clever  and  original  and  all  that. 
I  am  rather  commonplace,  and  I  never  have  new  or 
surprising  thoughts.  The  more  I  learn,  the  more  I 
grow  attached  to  the  ordinary  ways.  Once  you  called 
me  the  ideal  hourgcoise.     You  were  right." 

"  Not  entirely,"  said  Rennes.  "  You  think  too 
much." 

"  You  taught  me  that.  I  never  used  to  considet 
people  or  notions.     I  accepted  them  without  criticism." 

"  The  madness  of  criticism  has  entered  into  you," 
he  said.  "  It  is  the  worst,  most  destructive  thing  on 
earth." 


76  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

"  How  could  I  have  accepted  you — as  my  friend — 
without  it?"  she  asked.  "You  puzzled  me.  I  tried 
to  understand  you.  No  one  had  ever  puzzled  me 
before.  No  one,  you  may  be  quite  sure,  will  ever 
puzzle  me,  in  the  same  degree,  again." 

She  gave  him  a  long,  tearful  glance,  in  which  defi- 
ance, reproach,  determination,  and  a  certain  cruelty 
shone  like  iron  under  water.  He  made  a  movement 
toward  her.  The  strength  of  his  more  emotional 
nature  might  have  made  a  final  assault — not  uselessly 
— on  her  assumed  "  reasonableness."  No  appeal,  no 
threat  could  have  moved  her  from  the  mental  attitude 
she  had  decided  on — the  duty  of  keeping  her  word  to 
Lord  Reckage.  But  she  might  have  been  urged  to 
the  more  candid  course  of  ascertaining  how  far  his 
lordship's  real  happiness  was  really  involved  in  the 
question.  At  that  moment,  however,  Mrs.  Rennes 
came  into  the  room.  She  gave  a  little  cry  of  surprise 
when  she  saw  her  son.  Then  she  kissed  Agnes,  and 
sat  down,  looking  anxiously  from  one  to  the  other 
with  something  not  unlike  grief,  not  unlike  jealousy. 

Her  life  and  habits  of  thought  were  simple,  but 
she  had  been  highly  educated.  She  was  an  accom- 
plished linguist,  a  good  musician,  a  most  intelligent 
companion.  Things  which  she  could  not  comprehend 
she  would,  at  least,  accept  on  faith.  There  had  never 
been  the  shadow  of  a  quarrel  between  Angelo  and 
herself.  But  she  felt,  by  intuition,  that  Agnes  Carillon 
had,  in  some  way,  affected  his  life,  his  work,  his  whole 
nature.  She  could  not  blame  her,  because  she  knew 
nothing  definite  about  the  understanding  which  existed, 
plainly  enough,  between  her  son  and  this  young  lady. 
She  had  a  horror,  however,  of  flirtation  and  flirts.  It 
seemed  to  her  that,  under  all  this  talk  and  correspond- 
ence on  art,  poetry,  scenery,  and  the  like,  there  was  si 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  77 

strong  under-current  of  emotion.  So  she  smiled  upon 
Agnes  with  a  certain  reserve,  as  though  she  were  not 
quite  sure  whether  she  had  any  great  reason  to  feel 
delighted  at  her  call.  At  a  glance  from  Angelo,  how- 
ever, her  look  softened  into  real  friendliness. 

"  I  was  so  surprised  to  see  Mr.  Rennes  here,"  said 
Agnes. 

"  I  am  surprised,  too,"  said  the  older  woman. 

A  restraint  fell  upon  all  three.  Angelo  walked 
about  the  room,  looking  for  things  he  did  not  want, 
and  asking  questions  he  did  not  wish  answered — al- 
though he  hoped  they  would  interest  his  mother. 
But  his  spirits  soon  flagged.  The  conversation  became 
trivial  and  absurd. 

"Where  are  you  staying?"  asked  Mrs.  Rennes. 

"  I  am  with  Pens^e  Fitz  Rewes,"  said  Agnes:  "she 
has  gone  in  the  carriage  to  do  a  little  shopping.  She 
will  send  it  here  for  me." 

The  carriage  was  at  that  instant  announced.  Angelo 
went  down  the  stairs  with  Agnes  and  handed  her  in. 
He  said  nothing.  Mrs.  Rennes  watched  the  pair  from 
the  window  and  nodded  her  farewell  with  much  gravity. 
When  Angelo  returned  to  her,  he  found  her  reading 
peacefully  Trollope's  last  novel.  It  was  for  these 
graces  that  he  loved  her  most.  He  scribbled  letters 
at  her  writing-table  for  the  next  hour.  Then  he 
spoke — 

"  I  am  going,"  said  he,  "  to  the  East.  I  need  a 
change.     I  suppose  it  will  mean  six  months." 

"  But  how  you  will  enjoy  it !  " 

"  And  what  will  you  do  ?  " 

"  I  live  from  day  to  day,  my  dear.  I  am  quite  con- 
tented." 

"  This  journey  is  not  a  mere  caprice.  I  have  been 
contemplating  it  for  some  time,"  he  said. 


78  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

Mrs.  Rennes's  hair  was  white  and  her  long  equine 
countenance,  sallow.  When  her  feelings  were  stirred, 
she  showed  it  only  by  a  cloudy  pallor  which  would 
steal  over  her  face  as  a  kind  of  veil — separating  her 
from  the  rest  of  mortals. 

"  One  has  to  get  away  from  England,"  continued 
Rennes  :  "  one  has  to  get  away  from  one's  self." 

"And  where  is  your  self  now  ?  "  she  asked,  not  ven- 
turing to  look  at  him. 

"  With  that  girl,"  he  answered,  suddenly ;  "  with 
that  girl." 

"  Do  you  love  her?" 

"  I  don't  know.  I  suppose  I  do.  Oh  !  I  would 
love  her  if  I  could  ever  be  absolutely  sincere.  But 
this  I  do  know — I  can't  see  her  married  to  that  fellow 
Reckage.     So  I  must  go  away." 

"I  am  afraid  she  is  a  coquette — a  serious  coquette, 
my  dear  boy." 

"  She  is  nothing  of  the  kind.  She  is  a  true  woman. 
Don't  talk  about  her," 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  79 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

Sara  had  spent  the  morning  crying  bitterly,  in  bed. 
Her  letter  to  the  Duke  of  Marshire  was  on  the  table 
by  her  side.  From  time  to  time  she  had  taken  it  up, 
turned  it  over,  shed  fresh  tears,  and  reproached  herself 
for  indecision.  She  held  at  bay  every  thought  of 
Robert  Orange,  and  formed  the  resolve  of  banishing 
him  from  her  mind  for  ever.  When  the  time  came  to 
dress  for  luncheon,  she  brightened  a  little,  for  the 
prospect  of  disguising  her  true  feelings  in  the  presence 
of  Lord  Reckage  and  Pensee  appealed  to  that  genius 
for  mischief  which  animated  the  whole  current  of  her 
life.  To  baffle  the  looker-on  seemed  not  merely  a  great 
science,  but  the  one  game  of  wits  which  could  never 
lose  its  interest.  She  was  not  insincere.  She  thought 
that  lies,  as  a  rule,  were  clumsy  shifts,  and  abominable. 
Even  in  the  moments  when  she  was  most  thoroughly 
conscious  of  her  talent  for  misleading  others,  she  had 
never  brought  herself  to  think  well  of  deception.  She 
would  have  liked  to  feel  that  her  heart  was  an  open 
book  for  her  friends  to  read.  It  would  have  been 
pleasant,  she  believed,  if  all  could  have  known  always 
that  she  practised  a  delicate  art  and  played,  consum- 
mately, fine  comedy  whenever  she  found  spectators. 
But  a  solitary,  mismanaged  childhood,  and  the  constant 
sense  of  being  in  many  ways  a  foreigner,  had  taught 
her  the  penalty  of  frankness  where  sympathy  could  not 
supply,  from  its  own  knowledge,  the  unutterable  half 
which  makes  up  every  confidence.     The  bitter  pleasures 


8o  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

of  a  conscience  which  caresses  its  worst  burden  were 
the  only  real  ones  of  her  daily  existence.  When  she 
could  say,  at  the  end  of  the  day,  "  I  have  fooled  them 
all  :  they  think  I  am  happy,  I  am  not  :  they  think 
Reckage  amuses  me,  he  doesn't.  They  think  I  delight 
in  these  dull  dinners  and  balls,  I  hate  them  :  "  a  sort  of 
exultation — the  pride  of  a  spirit  singing  under  torture 
— would  fill  her  w^hole  being.  All  youth  that  is  strong 
and  thoughtful  has  much  of  this  instinct  of  dissimula- 
tion. The  world — to  a  young  mind — appears  con- 
trolled by  elderly,  suspicious,  hateful  custodians  ever 
on  the  alert  to  capture,  or  thwart,  every  high  enter- 
prise and  every  passionate  desire.  There  seems  a  vast 
conspiracy  against  happiness — the  withered,  dreary 
wiseacres  in  opposition  to  the  joy,  the  daring,  the 
beauty,  the  reckless  vitality  of  souls  still  under  the 
spell  of  spring.  When  poor  Sara  could  escape  from 
town  into  the  country,  mount  her  horse,  and  tear 
through  a  storm,  the  neighbours  compared  her  to  a 
witch  on  a  broomstick,  and,  shaking  their  heads,  would 
foresee  much  sipping  of  sorrow  by  the  spoonful  in  the 
future  of  Lord  Garrow.  To-day,  however,  the  young 
lady  assumed  her  most  demure  expression,  and  received 
the  guests  at  luncheon  as  though  she  had  never  learnt 
the  meaning  of  tears  nor  joined  the  gale  in  spirit. 

Sir  Piers  Harding  w^as  the  last  to  arrive.  He  was  a 
thick-set,  livid  man  with  an  unyielding  smile  and  the 
yellow  eyes  of  one  whom  rich  diet  rather  than  an  angry 
god  had  rendered  melancholy. 

"  You  haven't  changed  in  the  least,"  he  said,  con- 
sidering Lord  Garrow  with  some  resentment. 

"Ah,  well !  "  replied  his  lordship,  "  eleven  years  do 
not  make  much  difference  at  my  time  of  life.  You, 
however,  are  decidedly  greyer.  Where  have  you  been 
hiding  yourself  ?     I  think  you   were  foolish  to  leave 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  81 

England.  Gladstone  was  remarking  but  the  other 
day,  '  Harding  was  always  so  cocksure.'  '  And  wasn't 
he  right  ?  '  said  I.  '  Of  course,'  said  he  ;  *  and  that  was 
the  worst  of  him.  He  was  right.  Who  could  stand 
it  ?  '  That's  the  world.  It's  devilish  unappreciative  of 
the  truth." 

Reckage,  much  bored  by  the  old  men,  stood  by 
Pensee's  chair,  where  he  could  watch  Sara  and  angle 
for  her  glance.  When  it  happened  that  she  smiled  at 
him  a  little — either  in  mere  friendship  or  mockery — he 
felt  a  kind  of  fire  steal  through  his  veins,  and  he  told 
himself  that  she  was  a  dangerous  woman — a  woman 
who  would  get  her  own  way  in  the  long  run.  That 
she  was  a  girl — and,  with  all  her  shortcomings,  a  very 
innocent  one — made  her  odd  powers  of  fascination  but 
the  more  insidious.  She  wore  a  dress  of  wine-coloured 
silk  which  fitted  plainly  over  her  breast  and  shoulders 
and  fell  in  graceful  flounces  from  the  waist.  The 
warm,  olive  lines  of  her  cheek  and  throat  appeared  the 
darker  in  contrast  with  a  twist  of  white  lace  which  she 
wore  round  her  neck ;  and  her  black  hair,  dressed 
higher  than  usual,  was  held  in  place  by  a  large  ruby 
comb  which  caught  the  firelight  as  she  moved.  Reck- 
age was  conscious,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  of  a 
real  embarrassment.  He  could  not  talk  to  her ;  he 
felt  tongue-tied  when  she  addressed  him.  Ill  at  ease, 
yet  not  unhappy,  he  struggled  to  maintain  some 
coherence  in  his  conversation  ;  but,  at  each  moment, 
his  own  ideas  grew  less  certain  and  Sara's  voice  more 
enchanting.  It  seemed  to  convey  the  lulling  powers 
of  an  anodyne.  When  he  tried  to  rouse  himself,  the 
effort  was  as  painful  as  the  attempt  to  wake  from  a 
dream  within  a  dream. 

"  You  were  at  the  wedding  this  morning?  "  she  asked 
lightly. 


82  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

"  No.  .  .  .  What  a  fool  I  am  !  Yes,  of  course.  You 
mean  Robert's  wedding?  " 

She  gave  a  Httle  smile,  and  murmured,  dropping  her 
voice,  "  I  meant  Robert's  wedding." 

Luncheon  was  then  announced  :  the  sliding  doors 
which  separated  the  dining-room  from  Lord  Garrow's 
library  were  rolled  back.  They  all  walked  in — Pensee 
and  Sara  leading  the  way. 

"  A  sweet  creature!  "  whispered  his  lordship  behind 
their  backs,  indicating  Lady  Fitz  Rewes.  He  sighed 
as  he  spoke.  He  could  never  feel  that  there  was  not 
something  deplorable  in  Sara's  physical  brilliancy. 
Her  upper-lip  that  day  had  a  certain  curl  which  he  had 
learnt  to  regard  as  a  danger  signal.  What  would  she 
do  next  ?  As  he  sat  down  at  the  table  and  observed 
the  sweep  of  her  eyelashes  toward  Reckage,  a  presenti- 
ment of  trouble  clouded  the  new  hopes  he  had  formed 
for  her  career. 

"Who  are  your  strong  men  now?"  asked  Harding 
suddenly,  after  a  moment's  contemplation  of  Reckage, 
who  sat  opposite. 

"  Our  strong  men?  "  faltered  Lord  Garrow. 

*'  Aren't  most  of  'em  place-hunters  and  self-seekers  ?  " 

"  You  must  meet  Robert  Orange,"  said  Pens6e ; 
**  Mr.  Disraeli  believes  in  Robert  Orange." 

"  I  never  heard  of  him,"  observed  Sir  Piers.  "  Who 
is  he?" 

"  You  may  well  ask,"  said  Lord  Garrow.  "  He 
claims  to  be  a  de  Haus^e — on  his  father's  side. 
Reckage  can  tell  you  about  him.  Many  have  a  high 
opinion  of  the  fellow,  and  say  that  if  he  will  stick  to 
one  branch  of  politics,  he  may  become  useful.  Per- 
sonally, I  don't  call  him  a  man  of  the  world." 

"  Not  of  our  world,  perhaps,  papa.  But  there  are 
so  many  other  worlds ! " 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  83 

"  Sara  likes  him.  A  lot  of  women  like  him,"  said 
his  lordship.  He  was  annoyed  at  her  interruption 
and  took  his  revenge  by  a  feminine  thrust.  "  The 
hero,"  said  he,  "  married  some  mysterious  person  this 
very  morning.  We  may  not  hear  so  much  about  him 
in  the  future  !  " 

"  Dear  Lord  Garrow,"  said  Pens^e,  "  his  wife  is 
a  friend  of  mine — she  is  the  most  charming  person." 

Sara  put  out  her  hand  and  touched  Reckage  on  the 
arm. 

"  Do  you  think,"  she  asked,  "  that  the  wife  will 
be  an  obstacle  in  his  way  ?  " 

"  Who  can  tell  ?  Of  course  she  has  means,  and  he 
likes  to  do  everything  well." 

"  Speaking  for  myself,"  said  Harding,  "  I  have 
always  held  that  a  man's  career  rests  rather  on  his 
genius  than  his  marriage." 

"  But  you,  my  dear  fellow,"  put  in  Lord  Garrow, 
testily,  "  you  retired  from  political  life  because  your 
theories  could  find  no  illustration  there." 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  Sir  Piers,  with  a  grim  laugh. 
"  I  retired  because  I  had  a  faultless  wife  but  unfor- 
tunately no  genius.  I  shall  therefore  watch  your 
friend's  triumph  or  failure — for  his  position  would 
seem  to  be  precisely  the  reverse  of  my  own — with 
peculiar  sympathy." 

"Ah!  I  fear  you  are  rather  heartless,"  exclaimed 
Sara.  "  For  a  man  to  have  gone  so  far  as  Orange, 
and  to  know  that  perhaps — I  say,  perhaps — he  can 
hope  no  higher  because  he  made  a  fool  of  himself 
about  a  woman  !  " 

"You  speak  as  though  it  were  a  romantic  marriage 
— a  question  of  love." 

"  Of  course,"  said  the  young  lady  softly.  "  It  is  a 
great  passion." 


84  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

"  Well,  after  all,"  observed  Harding,  who  was  not 
insensible  himself  to  Sara's  delightfulness,  "  the  British 
public  is  absurdly  fond  of  a  love-match.  They  adore 
a  sentimental  Prime  Minister.  They  want  to  see 
him  either  marrying  for  love,  or  jilted  in  his  youth  for 
a  richer  man.  These  things  enlist  the  popular  sym- 
pathy. What  made  Henry  Fox?  His  elopement  with 
Lady  Caroline  Lennox." 

"  To  be  sure,"  said  Reckage — "  to  be  sure.  That's 
a  point." 

"  It  is  a  compliment  to  the  sex,"  continued  Harding, 
"  when  a  great  man  is  taken  captive  by  a  pretty  face. 
Men,  too,  rally  round  a  Lochinvar.  Such  an  evidence 
of  heart — or  folly,  if  you  prefer  to  call  it  so — is  also 
an  evidence  of  disinterestedness.  So,  on  the  whole  I 
cannot  follow  your  objections  to  the  new  Mrs.  Orange." 

"  You  have  been  away  so  long,"  said  Garrow  fussily, 
"that  you  have  forgotten  our  prejudices.  Orange 
himself,  to  begin  with,  has  something  mysterious  in 
his  origin.  They  say  he  is  French — related  to  the 
old  French  aristocracy ;  but  the  less  one  says  in 
England  about  foreign  pedigrees  the  better.  All  that 
of  itself  is  against  him,  and  Mrs.  Orange,  it  seems,  is 
more  or  less  French,  or  Austrian,  too.  We  can't  help 
regarding  them  as  foreigners,  and  I  always  distrust 
foreigners  in  politics.  Why  should  they  care  for  Eng- 
land ?  I  ask  myself." 

"  Why,  indeed  ?  "  said  Harding,  with  irony. 

"  Have  I  made  myself  clearer  ? "  asked  Garrow. 
"  I  can  afford  to  speak.  My  own  wife  was  a  Russian. 
But  I  was  not  in  political  life,  and  she  was  an  Am- 
bassador's daughter." 

"You  think  you  would  feel  more  sure  of  Orange's 
patriotic  instinct  if  he  had  chosen  an  Englishwoman?  " 
said  Reckage. 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  85 

"  I  am  bound  to  say  that  he  would  have  shown  dis- 
cretion in  settling  down  with  one  of  our  simple-hearted 
Saxon  girls." 

"  And  who  was  Mrs.  Orange  before  she  married 
Orange  ?  "  asked  Harding. 

"  A  widow — a  Mrs.  Parflete,"  said  Garrow. 

"  Parflete  !  "  exclaimed  Harding.  "  Mrs.  Parflete  ! 
But  I  have  met  her.  She  married  Wrexham  Parflete, 
an  extraordinary  creature.  He  lived  for  years  with 
the  Archduke  Charles  of  Alberia.  People  used  to  say 
that  Mrs.  Parflete  was  the  Archduke's  daughter.  I 
ran  across  Parflete  the  other  day  in  Sicily." 

"  But  he  is  dead,"  said  Pens6e,  much  agitated;  "he 
drowned  himself." 

"  I  cannot  help  that,"  repeated  Sir  Piers.  "  I  met 
him  last  week,  and  he  beat  me  at  ^cart^." 

"  Then  it  is  not  the  same  man,"  said  Reckage,  "  quite 
obviously." 

"  Wrexham  Parflete  had  a  wife ;  I  heard  her  sing 
at  a  dinner-party  in  Madrid.  She  was  living  with  the 
Countess  Des  Es-cas ;  there  was  a  row  and  a  duel  on 
her  account.     I  never  forget  names  or  faces." 

"  But  this  looks  serious,"  said  Reckage.  "  Do  you 
quite  understand  ?  It's  the  sort  of  thing  one  hardly 
dares  to  think.  That  is  to  say  if  you  mean  what  I 
mean.     The  marriage  can't  be  legal." 

The  two  women  turned  pale  and  looked  away  from 
each  other. 

"  I  mean  as  much  or  as  little  as  you  like,"  said 
Harding.     "  But  Parflete  was  alive  last  Monday." 

"  But  bigamy  is  so  vulgar,"  observed  Lord  Garrow. 
"You  must  be  mistaken.     It  is  too  dreadful !  " 

"Dreadful,  indeed!  And  a  great  piece  of  folly 
into  the  bargain.  It  is  selling  the  bear's  skin  before 
you  have  killed  the  bear." 


86  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

Lady  Fitz  Rewes  glanced  piteously  at  the  three  men 
and  wrung  her  hands. 

"  Don't  you  see,"  she  exclaimed,  "  don't  you  see 
that  if  there  is  the  least  doubt  of  Mr.  Parflete's  death, 
we  ought  to  go  to  them.  Some  one  must  follow 
them." 

"  There  is  that  touch  of  the  absurd  about  it,"  said 
Reckage,  "  which  makes  it  difificult  for  a  friend  to 
come  forward.  To  pursue  a  man  on  his  wedding 
journey — " 

"  It  is  no  laughing  matter,"  put  in  Lord  Garrow  ; 
"  and  if  the  woman  has  deceived  the  poor  fellow,  it's 
a  monstrous  crime." 

"  Oh,  she  hasn't  ;  she  couldn't  deceive  him,"  said 
Pens^e.     "  I  know  her  intimately." 

"  She  was  considered  very  clever — at  Madrid,"  said 
Sir  Piers,  finely.  "  To  you  she  may  appear  more  to 
be  pitied  than  she  really  is." 

"  Don't  say  such  things  !  I  won't  hear  them.  1 
love  her  very  much." 

"  Perhaps  she  is  clever  enough  to  appear  stupid  in 
public." 

"  No,  no  !  "  Her  voice  trembled  and  tears  gushed 
from  her  eyes.  "  You  will  regret  these  words.  This 
news  will  kill  her." 

"  Something  must  be  done,"  said  Sara.  "  Beau- 
clerk,  you  ought  to  follow  them  and  tell  them.  Pensee 
is  right." 

"  This  will  make  a  horrid  scandal,"  said  Lord 
Garrow,  who  was  appalled  at  the  prospect  of  being 
mixed  up  in  so  disagreeable  an  affair  ;  "  why  not  leave 
it  alone  ?     It  is  not  our  business." 

*'  But  it  is  Beauclerk's  business,  papa.  Just  put 
yourself  in  his  place.  Surely  that  is  not  asking  too 
much." 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  87 

"  We  must  avoid  everything  precipitate,"  said 
Reckage  ;  "  we  mustn't  be  over-hasty." 

Lady  Fitz  Rewes  wiped  her  eyes,  rose  from  the 
table,  and  began  to  draw  on  her  gloves. 

"  But  we  must  be  friends,"  she  said  ;  "  if  you  cannot 
go  to  them,  I  will.  Do  you  realise  the  poor  child's 
position  !  An  illegal  marriage !  She  is  the  most 
gentle,  beautiful  person  I  ever  saw,  with  the  best  head, 
the  purest  heart.  She  professes  notJmig.  I  judge  her 
by  her  actions." 

"  But  you  must  see,"  said  Reckage,  "  that  I  can't 
give  Orange  all  this  pain  unless  I  have  something  more 
definite  to  go  on.  Sir  Piers  tells  us  that  he  played 
cards  with  Wrexham  Parflete  last  week."     He  paused. 

"  Wait  a  moment,"  said  Harding  ;  "  wait  a  moment. 
Does  any  one  present  know  Parflete's  handwriting?" 

"  I  do,"  said  Pens6e.  "  I  saw  his  last  letter  to  his 
wife.     He  wrote  it  before  he  committed  suicide." 

Sir  Piers  took  out  his  pocketbook,  and,  from  the 
several  papers  it  contained,  selected  a  three-cornered 
note. 

"  By  the  merest  chance,"  said  he,  "  I  have  this  with 
me." 

The  others  unconsciously  left  their  seats  and  looked 
over  his  shoulder  while  he  smoothed  out  the  sheet. 
It  was  dated  plainly,  "October  7,  1869,"  and  con- 
tained the  acknowledgment  of  two  ten-pound  notes 
won  at  ^cart^. 

"  That  is  the  hand,"  said  Pens^e.  "One  could  not 
mistake  it." 

"  Then  this  is  really  very  serious,"  said  Lord 
Reckage,  with  twitching  lips.  "  The  whole  story  has 
had  all  along  something  of  unreality  about  it.  Robert 
seems  fated  to  a  renunciant  career — colourless,  self- 
annihilating." 


88  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

"  What  will  you  do  ?  "  murmured  Pens6e,  with  an 
imploring  gesture.     "  What  will  you  do?" 

"They  leave  Southampton  at  three  o'clock,"  said 
Reckage ;  "  it  is  now  half-past  two.  The  steamer 
goes  twice  a  week  only,  I  can  send  him  a  telegram 
and  follow  them  overland — by  way  of  Calais." 

"  Then  I  must  go  also,"  said  Pensee  firmly.  "  She 
will  need  me.  I  have  had  a  presentiment  of  trouble 
so  long  that  now  I  feel  '  Here  it  is  come  at  last.'  I 
cannot  be  too  thankful  to  God  that  it  isn't  worse." 

Nothing  showed  under  the  innavigable  depths  of 
Sara's  eyes.  She  had  moved  to  the  fireplace  and  stood 
there  holding  one  small  foot  to  the  blaze. 

"  Are  you  cold  ?  "  asked  her  father  anxiously. 

"  I  am  ice,"  she  said,  "  ice  !  " 

Reckage  joined  her  and  said,  under  his  voice,  "  You 
think  I  ought  to  go,  don't  you  ?  " 

This  question — given  in  a  half-whisper — seemed  to 
establish  a  fresh  intimacy  between  them.  It  was  the 
renewal  of  their  old  friendship  on  deeper  terms. 

"  Yes,  you  must  go,"  she  answered  ;  "  and,  Beau- 
clerk,  write  to  me  and  tell  me  how  he  bears  it." 

"  He  is  accustomed  to  a  repressive  discipline  on 
these  matters.  The  philosophic  mind,  you  know,  is 
never  quite  in  health.  Probably,  he  won't  show  much 
feeling." 

His  gaze  seemed  to  burn  into  her  face.  It  was  as 
though  she  had  been  walking  in  an  arbour  and  sud- 
denly, through  some  rift  in  the  boughs,  found  herself 
exposed  to  the  scorching  sun.  She  felt  dominated  by 
a  force  stronger  than  her  own  nature.  A  little  afraid, 
she  shrank  instinctively  away  from  him,  and  as  she 
dared  not  look  up,  she  did  not  see  the  expression  of 
triumph,  mingled  with  other  things,  which,  for  a 
moment,  lit  up  Lord  Reckage's  ordinarily  inscrutable 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  89 

countenance.  Lately,  he  had  been  somewhat  depressed 
by  his  encounter  with  refractory  wills.  His  horse, 
his  colleagues  on  the  Bond  of  Association,  his  future 
bride,  had  showed  themselves  fatiguing,  perhaps 
worthless,  certainly  disheartening  and  independent 
accessories  to  his  life.  Here,  at  last,  was  some  one 
brilliant,  stimulating,  by  no  means  self-seeking.  Quix- 
otic in  enthusiasms. 

"  Sara,"  he  said,  obeying  an  impulse  which  surprised 
himself,  "  do  you  believe  in  me  ?  " 

This  time  she  gave  him  a  straight  glance. 

"Yes,"  she  answered.  "  You  might  do  a  great  deal 
if  you  could  forget  yourself  for  a  few  months." 

Pens^e,  much  troubled  and  full  of  thoughts,  walked 
over  to  them. 

"Oh,  Sara!"  she  said,  "  isn't  it  terrible?  If  you 
could  have  seen  them  both  this  morning — she  looked 
so  beautiful,  perfectly  lovely — a  sight  I  never  can 
forget.  And  now  this  blow  !  What  man  can  teach 
men  to  understand  the  will  of  God?  " 


90  ROBERT  ORANGE. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

Robert  and  Brigit  were  silent  with  happiness  on 
their  way  to  Southampton.  Side  by  side  they  watched 
the  country  through  the  carriage  windows.  There  had 
been  a  fog  in  London  when  they  left,  and  the  sun,  at 
intervals,  shone  out  like  a  live  coal  among  dying  em- 
bers. All  was  obscured  ;  the  foot-passengers  and  pass- 
ing vehicles  seemed  black  straying  shadows  in  the 
atmosphere.  But  the  express  emerged  at  last  from  the 
clinging  darkness  into  autumnal  fields,  some  brown 
after  the  harvest,  others  studded  with  hay-ricks.  At 
one  point  in  the  landscape  they  noticed  a  flock  of  sheep 
drinking  at  a  stream.  The  boy  who  guarded  them 
waved  his  cap  at  the  train,  and  this  little  signal,  com- 
ing, as  it  were,  from  human  nature,  gave  them  a  re- 
assurance of  the  day's  reality.  Near  Eastleigh  the 
clouds  were  white  and  dense,  but,  rippling  in  places, 
they  disclosed  blue  stretches  of  the  heaven  which,  in 
their  masses,  they  concealed.  Southampton  began 
with  small  houses.  One  had  a  tattered  garden,  where 
a  stone  copy  of  the  Medicean  Venus  stood  on  a  patch 
of  squalid  turf  near  a  clothes  line  and  against  an  ivy- 
grown  wall.  Then  the  green  sands  were  reached.  The 
sea,  like  liquid  granite,  sparkled  in  the  distance.  Rows 
of  dull  dwellings,  shops,  public-houses,  and  hotels,  came 
next.  The  train,  with  a  shriek,  rushed  into  the  station. 
It  was  still  too  early  for  lunch,  so  they  walked  down  to 
the  pier,  where  they  saw  several  yachts  and  pleasure- 
boats  at  anchor  in  the  harbour,  and  the  New  Forest 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  91 

greenly  outlined  in  the  distance.  These  were  the  things 
which  engraved  themselves  on  Brigit's  mind.  The  im- 
pressibility of  youth  is  retentive  for  outward  objects, 
but  the  inner  mood — the  sensation  and  idea  which 
make  the  mental  state — lives  unconsciously,  and  is 
recognised  only  in  the  long  process  of  time.  Brigit 
could  have  described  the  scene,  but  her  emotions  did 
not  seem  to  her  emotions.  Absorbed  by  them,  and  in 
them,  she  neither  abandoned  herself  to  the  hour  nor 
asked  herself  what  the  hour  held.  She  and  the  hour 
were  one — a  single  note  ;  and  the  joy  she  felt  at  being 
with  Robert,  leaning  on  his  arm  and  hearing  his  voice, 
was  so  simple  that,  even  if  a  psychologist  of  the  deep- 
est experience  had  been  able  to  probe  into  the  work- 
ings of  her  mind,  he  would  have  found  nothing  there  to 
analyse.  Hers  was  a  child's  affection — the  first  love  of 
a  heart  still  immature,  and  not  yet  made  suspicious  of 
itself  by  contact  with  others  less  innocent.  Parflete 
had  been  too  worldly-wise  not  to  guard  and  value — at 
its  true  price — a  disposition  so  graceful  in  its  very 
essence.  She  had  a  knowledge  of  affairs  beyond  her 
years,  yet  her  own  instincts,  her  education,  her  few 
friendships,  had  kept  her  curiously  ignorant  of  evil,  of 
much  also  that  is  neither  good  nor  evil,  but  merely 
human.  The  sombre  sentimentality  which  lurks  in 
most  young  girls  of  seventeen  was  not  in  her  character 
at  all,  and  in  its  stead  she  possessed  the  gaiety  and 
carelessness  of  feeling  which  belongs  to  imaginative 
rather  than  to  sensuous  natures.  A  boy-like  spirit 
showed  itself  in  all  her  words,  movements,  moods  ;  her 
womanhood  still  slept,  and  thus,  while  her  intelligence 
made  her  an  unusual  companion  and  her  beauty  pre- 
sented a  constant  appeal  to  all  that  is  romantic,  it  was 
inevitable  that  melancholy  and  reserve  should  enter 
largely  into  the  passionate  love  which  Robert  felt  for 


92  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

her.  He  told  himself  that  he  would  not  have  her 
different.  The  glance  of  her  eyes,  which  stirred  him 
strangely  to  the  very  depths  of  his  being,  never  varied 
in  its  sweetness  nor  its  calm.  When  her  lightest  touch 
could  sway  his  body  and  spirit,  she,  unconscious  of  her 
power,  would  press  bis  hand  against  her  cheek  and 
talk  about  the  geraniums  in  the  convent  garden  or  the 
chances  of  the  Carlist  war.  It  was  all  wonderful.  It 
had  seemed  perfect.  And  yet — and  yet.  She  was  not 
cold,  but  was  she  unearthly  ?  Was  she,  perhaps,  some 
straying  angel — some  fervid,  bright  spirit,  flame-coloured 
and  intangible,  a  being  of  the  elfin  race?  As  they 
stood  together  looking  at  the  distant  coast-line,  a  de- 
pression which  he  could  neither  fathom  nor  control 
came  over  him.  His  bride  seemed  so  much  younger 
than  he  had  ever  realised.  She  cared  for  him — how 
could  he  doubt  it?  But  was  the  indefinable,  indis- 
pensable feeling  absent  ? 

"  Do  you  remember  our  journey  from  Catesby?"  she 
asked  suddenly.  "I  slept.  Wasn't  I  dull?  Did  you 
mind  ?" 

No  one  could  see  them.  He  stooped  and  kissed  her 
fragrant,  animated  face.  "  I  wish,"  said  he,  "  I  wish 
that  you  were  not  quite  such  a  child." 

The  feeling  of  solitariness  weighed  upon  his  soul 
with  a  crushing  weight  unknown  until  that  day — the 
day  of  days,  his  wedding  day.  Heretofore  he  had 
craved  for  solitude  because  it  had  been  full  of  her 
imagined  companionship.  Now  that  she  actually  lived 
and  talked  by  his  side,  the  image  of  her  faded,  paled, 
vanished.  The  real  creature  was  adorable,  but,  for 
some  reason,  maddening,  and  not,  at  all  events,  the 
being  of  his  fancy.  Their  old  relations — ethereal  and 
exquisite  no  doubt — now  seemed  an  empty  mockery, 
self-deluding  foolishness.     He  coloured  at  the  remem- 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  93 

brance  of  all  that  Disraeli  had  hinted,  and  Reckage 
had  brutally  declared,  on  the  large  topic  of  idealism  in 
passion.  A  man,  in  spite  of  all  determination  to  be 
uncomplaining,  knows  the  How  much  and  How  little 
that  he  may  demand,  merely  as  a  man,  from  any 
given  advantage  or  disadvantage  in  existence.  Robert, 
hating  himself,  condemning  himself,  was  conscious,  in 
spite  of  himself,  that  Brigit's  affection  for  him  was  not 
love  in  the  full  human  sense  of  the  word.  He  had  ex- 
changed an  ordinary  self-restraint  for  an  impossibly 
false  position.  She  could  inspire  his  life,  but  could 
she  enter  into  it,  be  it,  live  it  with  him  daily  ?  Would 
there  not  have  to  be  great  reservations,  half  statements, 
and,  worst  of  all,  a  subtle  kind  of  hypocrisy  ?  He  re- 
proached himself  for  selfishness,  yet  the  fear  came  and 
it  remained.  He  had  captured  the  rainbow  and  mar- 
ried the  goddess.  Were  there  not  many  legends  illus- 
trating this  folly? — stories  of  men  who  had  married 
divinities  and  perished,  not  because  the  divinities  were 
at  fault,  but  because  mortals  must  wed  with  mortals. 
The  sight  of  his  wife's  beauty  caused  a  sudden,  violent 
irritation.  He  wished  she  had  none,  for  then,  perhaps, 
he  thought  he  would  have  been  satisfied,  more  than 
content,  in  the  placid  consideration  of  her  charms  of 
character.  He  found  himself  reduced  to  the  absurd 
predicament  of  deciding  to  banish  her  from  his  thoughts 
— a  last  sophism  which  showed  him,  all  too  clearly, 
how  wretched  he  was.  Their  silence,  which  had  been 
due  in  the  first  instance  to  the  sufficient  delight  of 
being  in  each  other's  company,  became  that  long 
pause  which  arises  from  an  unutterable  embarrassment. 
Brigit  felt  by  instinct  some  change  in  Robert's  mood, 
but  as  she  could  not  account  for  it  then,  her  sympathy 
failed.  The  keen  salt  air  filled  her  with  its  own  free 
buoyancy  ;  her  delicate  skin  flushed  in  the  wind  ;  she 


94  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

forgot  the  nervous  strain  of  the  morning,  the  awfuhiess 
of  the  grey  chapel,  the  new  state  of  things,  griefs  that 
were  past,  responsibilities  that  were  to  come.  She 
turned  to  Orange  as  a  child  would  turn  to  its  insep- 
arable comrade,  and  clapped  her  hands  with  amuse- 
ment at  an  organ-grinder  with  a  monkey  and  a  dog 
whom  she  noticed  sitting  at  the  end  of  the  pier,  wait- 
ing, apparently,  for  one  of  the  excursion  steamers 
bound  for  the  Isle  of  Wight. 

"  Pennies  for  the  monkey,  Robert,"  she  cried  ;  "  a 
lot  of  pennies !  And  then  we  must  have  our  lunch. 
May  I  have  some  chicken  and  one  of  those  very  droll, 
very  stupid,  English  rice  puddings  ?  Please  let  me 
have  one  .  .  .  And  may  I  kiss  the  dog  ?  It  is  a  nice 
little  dog — quite  as  nice  as  Pensee's  Fidelio.  Now  I 
am  going  to  talk  to  the  monkey  !  " 

She  ran  toward  the  little  animal,  who  was  shivering, 
pathetic  and  grotesque,  in  a  military  cap  and  a  red 
petticoat  trimmed  with  yellow  braid.  The  dog,  which 
was  a  young  pug  with  excellent  points,  gave  Brigit, 
after  many  entreaties,  his  paw.  She  addressed  the 
monkey  in  Italian,  and  laughed  till  she  cried  at  its  ab- 
surdities. Robert  looked  on,  consumed  by  a  sensation 
which  he  recognised,  with  much  shame,  as  jealousy.  He 
thought  the  pug  dog  and  the  monkey  revolting.  Yet 
she  kissed  one,  and  showered  heavenly  smiles  on  both. 

"  I  did  not  know  that  you  were  so  fond  of  animals," 
he  said,  as  they  walked  to  the  hotel  for  lunch. 

*'  I  am  not,"  she  answered  frankly,  "  as  a  rule.  But 
when  I  am  with  you  I  feel  so  happy  that  I  want  to 
kiss  everything — the  ground,  and  the  trees,  and  chairs, 
and  poodle  dogs,  and  the  whole  world  !  " 

"  Then  why  not — me  ?  " 

She  looked  at  him,  blushed  a  little,  and  waited  some 
moments  before  she  replied. 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  95 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  said  at  last.  "  It  must  be  be- 
cause I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  doing  so.  I  am  not 
accustomed  to  you  yet.  I  keep  thinking,  '  I  shall 
wake  up  in  a  minute  and  he  will  be  miles  away.'  Can't 
you  understand  ?  So  I  am  pretending  to  myself  all 
the  time  that  you  are  not  really  here." 

"  I  see." 

"  No,  dearest,  you  don't  quite  understand  ;  and  you 
are  a  little  disappointed  in  me  because  I  seem — I  must 
seem — rather  flippant.  I  daren't  be  serious — I  daren't. 
I  daren't  believe  that  I  am  your  wife." 

"  But  why  not  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head,  and  her  whole  face  became 
clouded  by  the  old,  terrible  unnatural  sadness  which 
he  knew  so  much  better  than  her  laughter. 

"  I  am  not  used  to  joy,"  she  said.  "  Perhaps,  if  we 
ever  get  to  heaven,  our  first  impulse  will  be  to  run 
back  again  to  Purgatory,  where  we  are  more  at  home." 

"  You  have  too  much  wit,  darling,  to  be  happy  any- 
where ! " 

"  No  !  no !  I  don't  ask  to  be  conventionally  happy, 
but  I  want  you  always.  That  is  all  .  .  .  you,  always, 
on  any  terms — on  a  rag-heap,  in  a  storm,  with  jackals 
howling  at  us  !  " 

"  What  a  picture  !  " 

"  My  idea  of  unalloyed  bliss,  or,  at  least,  the  only 
one  I  have  ever  permitted  myself.  I  can  even  believe 
that  might  be  realised."  A  smile  hovered  again  about 
her  lips,  but  she  looked  steadily  ahead,  as  though  she 
were  still  resolved  not  to  reassure  herself,  by  any  too 
frequent  glances,  of  his  much-loved  presence. 

The  peculiar  tenderness  of  her  voice  was  in  itself  a 
charm  against  ill-humour.  A  rush  of  bitter  self-reproach 
told  Robert  that  his  dissatisfaction  had  been  the  in- 
evitable result  of  too  many  blessings  on  a  base  nature. 


96  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

He  tried  to  speak  ;  he  watched  instead,  with  a  des- 
perate, eager  gaze,  the  play  of  her  expressive  features. 
"  I  wonder,"  she  said,  "what  our  life  is  to  be?  Not 
that  I  wish  to  pry  into  the  future,  but,  for  some  reason, 
I  can  never  feel  settled.  Every  morning  is  a  surprise. 
I  think,  too,  about  your  character  .  .  .  your  career. 
Have  I  helped  you,  or  have  I  been  a  hindrance  ?  I  am 
perverse,  capricious — not  an  angel.  No  human  influ- 
ence can  help  me  very  much.  I  must  depend  on  the 
discipline  of  God.  Oh,  if  I  could  know  all  that  He 
wants  me  to  do  !  " 

"  Most  of  us  have  that  desire,  Brigit.  At  least  it  is 
better  to  be  damned  trying  to  do  the  will  of  God  than 
saved — doing  nothing  !  One  has  to  take  a  good  many 
chances — even  the  chance  of  displeasing  Him — if  it 
comes  to  a  crisis." 

"  Many  people  would  call  that  reckless." 
"  Let  them  call  it  anything,"  said  the  young  man  ; 
"  names  do  not  matter.    The  ghastly,  unspeakable  dread 
is  to  be  timorous,  halting,  the  creature  of  indecision." 

"We  are  too  much  alike,"  she  sighed.  "Oh,  Rob- 
ert, if  we  did  not  suffer  horribly  within  ourselves  when 
we  do  wrong,  I  believe  we  should  both  defy  every  law 
in  the  world  !     I  am  a  born  rebel !  " 

More  than  a  note  of  her  mother's  insolence  was  in 
the  speech,  but  the  whole  spirit  of  the  dead  actress 
seemed  to  possess  Brigit  for  that  moment.  Her  being 
rippled,  as  it  were,  with  the  new  disturbance,  just  as  a 
pond  will  tremble  to  its  edges  at  the  mere  dip  of  a 
swallow's  wing.  The  artistic  hatred  of  all  restraint  and 
the  wild  desire  of  liberty  were  the  imperious  passions 
of  her  heart — more  vehement  than  any  other  feeling — 
even  her  love  for  Orange. 

"I  could  fight,"  she  said,  "  a  visible  devil,  but  this 
struggle  with  moods  and  tastes  is  deadening." 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  97 

"  What  are  the  moods  and  tastes?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  cannot  describe  them  well.  But  music  calls  me: 
I  hear  it  trilling,  and  sobbing,  and  whispering  every- 
where ;  and  sometimes  it  is  so  loud  and  so  beautiful 
that  I  wonder  why  every  one  else  doesn't  stop  to 
listen.  They  never  do.  So  I  sing  back  my  answer.  It 
is  silent  singing.  You  would  only  wonder  why  I  was 
so  quiet  all  at  once." 

"  But  I  have  heard  you  sing." 

"  Not  with  my  real  voice,  Robert.  It  is  stronger 
than  it  used  to  be."  She  checked  herself  and  hesi- 
tated, stopped  by  a  sudden  scruple — a  sort  of  delicacy. 
She  thought  nothing  at  all  of  her  beauty  and  never  of 
her  fortune  ;  but  in  giving  Robert  her  voice,  and  the 
nameless  ambitions  which  enveloped  it,  she  was  con- 
scious that  she  had  made,  in  some  way,  a  renunciation. 

"  Say  what  you  were  going  to  say,  dearest." 

"  I  cannot  forget,"  she  exclaimed  desperately,  "  that 
mamma  was  an  actress.  And  I  remember  some  of  the 
nights  at  the  theatre.  ...  I  liked  the  theatre.  .  .  . 
I  believe  I  could  act.  ...  I  have  learned  the  whole  of 
Pydre  and  the  whole  of  Juliet.     That  is  why  I  live." 

This  avowal  of  her  secret  overruling  instinct  set  free 
the  sanguine  strength  which  circumstances  had  im- 
prisoned, but  could  not  destroy,  in  her  character.  The 
constant  effort  of  hiding  from  all  observation  the  irre- 
pressible yearnings  of  a  talent  that  would  not  be  denied 
had  given  her  that  quality  of  mysteriousness,  of  dreamy 
habits  of  thoughts,  of  languor,  which,  even  to  Robert, 
had  looked  as  though  she  might  find  this  earth  too 
rough  to  live  on.  But  the  despair  which  comes  from 
fighting,  unsuccessfully,  the  world,  is  not  that  appear- 
ance of  weakness  which  is  the  result  of  fighting — more 
or  less  effectively — one's  own  energy.  In  this  latter 
issue  the  beaten  foe  joins  forces  obediently  enough 
7 


98  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

with  the  conqueror,  till  at  last  the  opposing  elements 
are  directed,  whether  for  good  or  evil,  by  one  will." 

"  So  you  want  to  go  on  the  stage,"  said  Orange 
quietly. 

She  turned  to  him  and  saw,  with  anguish,  the  deep 
amazement  his  words  had  not  expressed. 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  no.  I  have  you  instead.  I  want 
to  devote  myself  to  you — to  exist  for  you." 

**  Oh,  don't  you  see,  my  dear  child,  that  this  is  a 
kind  of — of  pity — of  anything  you  like  except  the  one 
thing — " 

**  I  adore  you,  Robert.  Oh,  I  can't  get  at  what  I 
want  to  say!  Any  talk  about  love  always  sounds  very 
stilted  or  hollow.  I  only  know  that  I  want  to  live  in- 
tensely in  all  that  concerns  you  :  that  just  to  think  of 
you  makes  me  perfectly  happy.  When  I  said  that 
learning  PMdi'e  and  Juliet  was  the  reason  I  lived  I 
was  thinking  of  the  time  when  I  had  no  right  to  think 
of  you.  Of  course  I  loved  you  always  from  the  begin- 
ning. It  began  at  Chambord  when  I  first  met  you.  I 
very  seldom  say  these  things,  and  it  is  better  that  they 
should  remain  unsaid  for  the  most  part.  But  you 
must  never  doubt  me,  and  I  feel  to-day,  in  spite  of  all 
we  know  about  each  other  and  all  we  have  suffered, 
that  you  are  doubting  me  now.  You  fear  I  don't 
know  my  own  mind.     Isn't  this  the  trouble  ?  " 

The  intuition  which  comes  to  men  and  women 
through  suffering  has  always  the  certain  sharpness  of 
a  surgeon's  knife.  It  may  be  a  reassurance  to  have 
the  inmost  thought  plucked  at  by  some  loving  spirit, 
and  yet  it  is  seldom  that  the  touch  can  be  given  with- 
out inflicting  agony.  Orange  could  not  reply  at  once. 
In  his  resolve  to  be  unselfish — to  put  aside  that  per- 
sonal equation  which  was  nothing  less  than  his  whole 
nature — he  had  to  steel  his  heart  to  her,  contradicting 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  99 

painfully,  by  curt,  unfelt   phrases,  the  promptings  of  a 
soul  turned  in  upon  itself,  desolate  and  confused. 

"  I  have  been  selfish  and  thoughtless,"  he  said  ab- 
ruptly ;  "  a  missed  vocation  is  irreplaceable,  and  it  is 
also  indestructible.  You  hear  the  echo  of  the  call  as 
long  as  you  live — perhaps  afterwards.  At  your  age 
you  could  feel,  but  you  could  not  wholly  understand, 
your  talents.     If  you  had  told  me  all  this  before — " 

She  laughed  with  real  joyousness  and  clung  more 
closely  to  his  arm. 

"  I  didn't  tell  you,"  she  exclaimed,  "  because  you 
would  have  said  just  what  you  are  saying  now.  You 
are  the  one.  All  the  rest  is  a  means  of  forgetting  you. 
It  is  something  resembling  happiness  to  be  alone  in 
the  turmoil  of  the  world  with  one  unspoilt  illusion. 
This  illusion  in  my  case  is  a  little  idea  that  I  could  be 
a  great  actress — perhaps !  Don't  look  grave,  Robert. 
It  makes  you  sad  when  I  talk  this  way." 

"  Those  who  can  be  disillusioned  have  no  convic- 
tions. Disillusion  is  the  failure  of  a  half-belief.  I  learnt 
that  long  ago.  But  I  hate  the  very  word  in  your 
mouth.  Woe  to  us  both  if  we  cannot  be  resolute  now. 
I  could  have  waited — had  I  seen  any  reason  to  wait. 
Time  could  make  no  difference  in  my  love.  As  it  is, 
I  have  stolen  you  from  yourself.  But  now  I  have 
stolen  you  I  will  keep  you.  I  cannot — cannot  give 
you  back  again  to  anything  or  anybody." 

He  spoke  with  that  almost  mocking  tenderness 
which  dissembles  its  passion.  At  the  practical  diffi- 
culty which  now  confronted  him  all  that  was  merely 
romantic  and  speculative  in  his  soul  took  flight,  as 
birds  that  are  frightened  from  a  quiet  orchard  by  the 
yelp  of  dogs.  He  became  aware  that  he  was  bitterly 
independent  of  the  joys  he  had  once  found  in  the  mere 
spectacle  of  the  exterior  world — the  play  of  light  and 


100  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

shade,  the  changing  visions  of  the  sky,  the  charm  of 
the    earth.     His    own    thoughts    were    now   the    sole 
realities,  and  the  dulness  which  suddenly  came  over 
his  vision  for  outward  things  seemed  to  render  it  the 
more  acute   and    concentrated   for  the   things  of  the 
mind.     As  distant  hills  and  tree  tops  show  most  dis- 
tinctly before  a  storm,  so  every  possibility  which  can 
arise  from  a  conflict  of  duties  stood  out  with  a  decisive 
clearness  for  his  consideration.     He  had  married  in 
haste  a  child-bride.     There  was  no   blinking  the  fact. 
She  had  the  strenuous  religious  fibre,  and,  with  it,  real 
Bohemian  blood.     She  was  also  at  the  yielding  age, 
when  a  dominant  influence  could  do  much  to  divert  or 
modify  every  natural  trait.     He  could  not  doubt  that 
he  had  this   power  over  her  then.     How  far,  and  to 
what    purpose,  should   he  exert   it?     For  himself  he 
wished  to  discourage   any  hankering  on  her  part   for 
public  life,  and,  most  of  all,  public  life  behind  the  foot- 
lights,  under  an  artificial  sky.     No  one  knew  better 
than  he  that  there  are  certain  things  of  love,  of  nobil- 
ity, of  temperament,  of  pride,    in   certain  lives  which 
the  world  at  large  would  rather  calumniate  than  com- 
prehend.    People  in   general   clung  to   their  opinions 
not  because   they  were  true,  but   because  they  were 
their  own,  and  among  pretty  general  opinions — par- 
ticularly in  the  year  1869— there  was  a  strong  preju- 
dice against  handsome  young  women  who  went  on  the 
stage.     It  was   not   in   him   to    consider — even   as   an 
egoistic   reflection   to   be  put  aside — how   far  Brigit's 
project,  carried  into  action,  could  effect  his  own  politi- 
cal career.     His  apprehensions  were  all  for  her  and  her 
own  content. 

"  Promise  me,"  he  said,  "  that  you  will  always  tell 
me  when  the  acting  mood  comes  over  you.  Never 
fight  it,  never  try  to  resist  it,  give  it  the  liberty  to  die, 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  loi 

but  also  the  right  to  live.  There  is  an  old  Hindoo 
proverb  :  Find  the  flower  which  can  bloom  in  the 
silence  that  follows — not  that  which  precedes — the 
storm.  This  applies  perfectly  to  a  talent  or  a  vocation. 
If  the  mood  is  there,  in  spite  of  fatigue,  or  discourage- 
ment, or  other  claims — happiness  for  that  matter— you 
may  depend  that  it  is  the  ruling  motive  of  your  life 
and  not  to  be  vanquished.  You  must  follow  the  bent 
or  you  will  suffer — suffer  till  you  die  of  it." 

"  How?  in  what  way?" 

**  Either  in  your  vanity  or  your  conscience  ;  either 
by  the  world's  judgment  on  your  conduct  or  by  your 
own  estimate  of  your  conduct.  You  have  no  vanity, 
so  the  world  doesn't  count.  But  you  have  a  con- 
science, and  that  counts  for  all !  " 

He  had  not  calculated,  and  he  could  not  have  fore- 
seen, the  effect  of  his  words.  Her  eyes  filled  with 
tears. 

"  My  dearest,"  she  said,  "  don't  you  see  how  trivial 
everything  is  to  me  in  comparison  with  you  ?  But 
I  dare  not  love  you  so  much  as  I  can  !  So  I  encourage 
other  enthusiasms — out  of  fear.  Sometimes  it  seems 
as  though  the  extraordinary,  impossible  ideal  would  be 
to  have  you  with  me  for  ever,  and  be  an  actress  as 
well.  But  that  is  out  of  the  question.  And  if  I  had 
my  choice — if  I  could  be  as  great  as  Rachel  or  Mrs. 
Siddons,  or  live  with  you  on  my  dear  rag-heap,  with 
the  jackals  howling — do  3^ou  think  that  I  would  hesi- 
tate, that  I  could  hesitate?" 

"  If  I  believed  you,  I  should  be  a  dreadful  coxcomb  !  " 

"  Risk  the  coxcomb,"  she  said.     "  I  can  ! " 

A  clanging  bell  and  the  noise  of  trafific  on  the  quay 
recalled  them  to  the  moment.  They  had  barely  time 
to  reach  the  steamer  and  get  on  board.  A  strong, 
cold  breeze  was  blowing :  the  sun   shone   full  on  the 


I02  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

sea,  which,  near  the  horizon,  was  as  green  as  the  sky 
on  a  summer  evening.  But  clouds  were  gathering  in 
the  north-west,  and  the  peculiar  brightness  which 
presages  rain  lent  a  fugitive  brilliancy  to  the  atmos- 
phere. The  town  and  its  spires  glittered  :  the  water, 
frothing  around  the  paddle-wheels,  sent  its  shining 
spray  upon  the  brown  boards  of  the  wharf.  Brigit 
kissed  her  hands  toward  France. 

"  Soon,"  she  exclaimed,  "  soon  I  can  kiss  its  ground. 
How  I  love  my  country  and  the  place  where  you  lived, 
Robert,  as  a  boy  !  " 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  103 


CHAPTER  X. 

Lady  Fitz  Rewes  had  determined  to  prevent  the 
marriage  of  Lord  Reckage  with  Agnes  Carillon.  She 
could  not  forget  the  dreadful  scene  with  Sara  when 
that  poor  girl  was  endeavouring  to  reconcile  herself  to 
the  Duke  of  Marshire's  proposal.  Pens^e  had  studied 
each  person  concerned  in  the  possible  tragedy.  She 
saw  that  Agnes  was  by  no  means  serene,  that  the  por- 
trait by  Rennes  somehow  made  no  progress,  that  Reck- 
age was  feverish  and  excitable.  His  bearing  toward 
Sara  during  the  lunch  confirmed  Pens^e's  suspicion 
that  the  love  which  had  existed  between  them  as  boy 
and  girl  was  still  unextinguished  on  either  side.  He 
would  have  been  less  than  mortal,  she  thought,  if  he 
had  not  felt,  with  all  the  bitterness  of  a  conscious  fool, 
that  he  had  missed  his  true  destiny.  Sara  possessed 
the  warmth  and  wealth  of  heart  which  were  the  com- 
plements his  own  bleak  nature  required.  Agnes  Caril- 
lon, with  her  accurate,  invariable  beauty,  had  a  prim 
disposition,  wholesome  enough  for  a  man  of  strange, 
dark  humours  like  Angelo  Rennes,  but  perilous  always 
in  its  effect  on  any  frigid  or  calculating  mind.  And 
Reckage  was  known  to  be  supremely  selfish.  It 
seemed  to  Pens^e  that  Sara  had  behaved  very  natu- 
rally, very  touchingly,  through  the  trying  conversation 
on  the  subject  of  rising  men  and  their  marriages.  Her 
demeanour  had  been  unsurpassable.  But  it  was  not  in 
nature  that  a  woman  who  understood  a  man  could 
look  on,  inactive  and  indifferent,  while  he  fettered  him- 


104  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

self  with  some  damaging  influence.  Perhaps  her  lady- 
ship felt  the  situation  more  keenly  because,  much  as 
she  loved  Mrs.  Parflete,  she  could  not  bring  herself  to 
think  that  she  was  the  wife  for  Robert.  She  had 
spent  many  weeks  refusing  admittance  to  this  thought, 
yet  prudence  was  prudence,  and,  by  virtue  of  its  stabil- 
ity, it  prevailed.  The  union,  even  viewed  in  the  most 
favourable  light,  had  always  seemed  imprudent.  It 
was  too  hurried.  Shocking,  mortifying  as  the  possi- 
bility of  its  being  illegal  was,  Pens^e's  conviction  that 
Almighty  God  ordered  all  things  for  the  best  seemed 
less  a  faith  and  more  a  matter  of  pure  reason — there 
was  much  in  the  ordinary  run  of  hard  cases  which 
made  demands  upon  her  piety.  "  Two  diamonds  do 
not  easily  form  cup  and  socket,"  was  an  old  saying  in 
her  home  circle.  The  more  she  had  seen  of  Brigit 
Parflete  the  more  she  had  been  struck  with  her — struck 
with  her  moodiness,  struck  with  her  contempt  for  re- 
ceived opinions,  her  vigour  and  independence  of  will. 
Was  she  the  wife  to  further  the  advance  of  a  man  of  ex- 
traordinary ability,  already  much  handicapped  on  the 
world's  course  by  a  proud  spirit,  a  reckless,  impetuous 
disdain  of  creatures  generally  considered  the  pink  of 
human  excellence?  He  was  passionately  in  love,  and 
the  strength  of  this  sentiment  carried,  for  the  time, 
every  thought  of  his  being  along  with  it.  But  love 
was  not  unalterable.  The  change  would  surely  come. 
The  fever  and  folly,  the  exaltation  and  ardours  would 
fade  into  a  sacred  affection — an  instinctive  tenderness ; 
yet  other  interests,  as  vital,  and  in  their  season  more 
absorbing,  would  flock  into  his  life.     What  then? 

Pensee  and  Reckage  did  not  exchange  many  words 
till  they  found  themselves  alone,  face  to  face,  in  the 
railway  carriage  bound  for  Dover.  Then  they  looked 
with  wonder  at  each  other,  stupefied  at  the  errand  on 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  105 

which  they  were  bound,  and  the  strangeness  of  the 
whole  proceeding.  Reckage  noticed  that  his  compan- 
ion was  attired  so  correctly  and  with  such  discretion 
that  no  one  could  have  told  she  was  a  pretty  woman. 
Her  veil  was  not  unusually  thick,  yet  it  disguised 
every  charm  of  expression  and  feature.  He  had 
bought  her  a  novel,  some  papers,  and  a  few  magazines  : 
she  turned  these  over  listlessly,  and  murmured,  as  the 
train  sped  along — 

"  Of  course,  I  had  to  come.  No  one  will  say  a  word 
when  the  circumstances  are  known.  I  hope  poor  Ren- 
shaw  is  comfortable  in  the  next  carriage." 

Reckage  replied  : 

"  You  have  behaved  like  an  angel !  " 

He  probably  but  half  understood  Pens^e's  character : 
he  underrated  her  intellect,  and  he  misconstrued  her 
friendship  for  Orange  into  a  weak  infatuation.  Agnes 
Carillon  shared  his  view  on  this  point,  for,  as  he  and 
his  future  bride  could  never  be  confidential  with  each 
other,  they  managed  an  appearance  of  intimacy  by  dis- 
cussing with  great  freedom  the  private  affairs  of  their 
friends.  Agnes,  in  the  fervour  of  godliness,  had  even 
seen  much  that  was  reprehensible  in  Lady  Fitz  Rewes's 
devotion  to  a  man  who  had  no  idea  of  marrying  her. 
She  had  declared  that  she  could  not  understand  it — an 
attitude  pleasing  to  her  fancy  and  gratifying  to  her 
pride.  Reckage  had  thought  it  was  not  quite  clear 
that  the  danger  was  immediate.  Such  was  his  feeling 
now  toward  Pensee,  although  he  was  conscious  of  a 
certain  curiosity  with  regard  to  her  motive  in  taking 
Brigit's  part  with  such  magnificent  self-effacement. 
This  seemed  to  him  unnatural ;  atid  although  she  had 
impressed  him  with  the  highest  opinion  of  her  kind- 
ness, he  could  not  believe  that  a  woman  of  genuinely 
tender   sensibilities    could   have   approached    such  an 


io6  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

altruistic  height.  She  was  an  excellent  creature— as 
creatures  went,  he  thought,  but  hard  in  a  feeble  way. 
Then  he  closed  his  eyes  and  called  up  the  elusive 
image  of  Sara  de  Treverell— very  dark,  very  handsome, 
with  her  superb  black  hair  reaching  to  her  knees— as 
he  had  often  seen  it  when  she  was  a  little  girl,  her  blue 
eyes  shining  with  a  strange  light,  her  lips  smiling,  her 
white  arms  held  out.  .  .  . 

"  Sara  may  not  be  a  happy  girl,"  said  Pens6e  sud- 
denly, "  but  she  is  a  clever  one." 

Reckage  started  from  his  reverie. 

"  How  odd  !  "  he  exclaimed,  surprised  into  candour. 
"  I  was  thinking  of  her  at  that  very  moment." 

Pens^e  had  read  as  much  on  his  face,  but  she  did  not 

tell  him  so. 

"  I  feel  for  her  very  much,"  she  observed  instead. 
"She  must  be  the  greatest  possible  comfort  to  her 
father,  although  he  may  not  realise  it.  Yet  he  is  forc- 
ing on  the  engagement  to  Marshire.  She  keeps  up  in 
the  most  courageous  way,  but  she  has  ideals,  and  no 
persuasion  will  induce  her  to  change  them." 

He  turned  red,  and  said,  looking  out  of  the 
window : — 

"  Ideals  do  no  harm  when,  for  some  reason  or  other, 
we  are  unable  to  carry  them  out." 

"  I  cannot  imagine  what  she  will  do,  or  how  she  will 
bear  her  life  if  things  continue  as  they  are." 

"  What  things  ?  " 

"  She  is  like  a  slave  to  Lord  Garrow.  She  is  with 
him  constantly,  reading  to  him,  and  doing  everything 
for  him.     She  will  be  a  cruel    loss  to  his  home  when 

she  marries." 

"  I  rather  revel  at  the  thought  of  the  dismay  which 
will  attend  her  final  capture  of  Marshire." 

"  I  used  to  hope  that  you  perhaps—" 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  107 

He  glanced  up  and  smiled  with  an  air  of  satisfaction. 

"  I  don't  like  the  appearance  of  measuring  myself 
against  Marshire.  .  .  .  But — but  he  certainly  seems,  in 
character,  the  culminating  point  of  mediocrity !  In 
fact,  Mr.  Disraeli,  whom  I  seldom  quote,  so  described 
him!" 

"  What  a  husband  for  that  brilliant,  affectionate 
girl !  She  likes  all  that  is  simple  and  grand.  A  real 
love — if  it  were  a  happy  one — would  make  her  even 
more  charming,  and  if  it  caused  her  suffering,  it  would 
make  her  even  more  noble.  But  failing  this,  there 
will  be  a  frightful  void  in  her  life." 

Reckage,  whose  imagination  began  to  play  round 
this  thought,  replied  with  unusual  seriousness — 

"  I  should  be  horribly  grieved  to  see  any  declension 
from  her  better  nature.  I  think  I  am  getting  to 
think  less  of  mere  social  power.  I  feel  more  than  I 
used  to  do,  that  if  one  could  literally  live  one's  theories 
on  moral  strength,  it  would  be  a  complete  refutation 
of  these  ideas  about  the  influence  of  money  or  a  big 
accidental  position.  Old  Harding  was  right  when  he 
said  at  luncheon  to-day  that  disinterestedness  counted 
very  highly  in  the  popular  vote.  The  point  about 
Henry  Fox's  elopement  with  Caroline  Lennox  was 

sound." 

"  It  would  not  have  been  sound,"  said  Pens^e,  "  if 
Carohne  Lennox  had  been  a  third-rate  woman.  A 
man  can  be  desperate  so  long  as  his  choice,  on  the 
whole,  justifies,  either  by  her  beauty,  or  her  talents,  or 
something  uncommon,  an  extreme  measure.  Now, 
Robert  may  not  have  made  a  wise  choice,  but  it  is 
certainly  a  distinguished  one.  It  can  be  understood 
and  it  commands  respect." 

"  Oh  yes,  his  is  a  thorough-going  emotion,  and  one 
couldn't  find  a  fault  with  its  object.     A  strong  man  is 


io8  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

always  a  man  who  feels  strongly  and  who  can  carry 
his  feeling  into  action.  Robert,  with  all  his  mysti- 
cism, is  never  subject  to  the  deep  depressions  of  spirit 
which  usually  afflict  men  of  his  gifts.  He  does  not 
know  what  it  is  to  be  languid  ;  or  to  have  invincible 
indecisions.  He  will  die  game — even  if  he  does  know 
German  metaphysic  backwards  !  " 

She  was  astonished. 

"  How  well  you  understand  him  !" 

He  leant  forward  a  little  and  adopted  a  more  con- 
fidential tone — 

"  Sara  spoke  of  him  at  lunch.  Her  judgment  of 
men  and  affairs — for  so  young  a  woman — is  nothing 
short  of  amazing.  I  attribute  it  to  the  Asiatic  streak 
on  her  mother's  side.  It  is  a  kind  of  second-sight. 
What  a  wife  for  a  Prime  Minister!  And  Marshire, 
a  fellow  of  middling  ability  and  no  experience,  has  had 
the  sense  to  perceive  her  qualities !  .  .  .  My  feelings 
can't  be  easily  defined,  nor,  indeed,  is  it  necessary  they 
should.  ...  I  have  gone  so  far  that  I  cannot  see 
anything  for  it  but  to  go  on." 

"You  mean — in  your  own  marriage?" 

He  sighed  profoundly,  remained  for  several  minutes 
silent,  and  finally  roused  himself  with  a  painful  effort. 

"There  are  some  griefs  which  can  defy  any  con- 
solation save  that  of  time.  Time  ultimately  cures 
everything.  It  is  a  matter  of  history  that  I  was  once 
very  much  attached  to  Sara." 

"  I  know,"  murmured  Pens6e,     "  I  know." 

He  covered  his  eyes  with  one  hand  and  looked 
througli  his  fingers  at  her  face,  asking  himself  by  what 
transition  he  could  best  arrive  at  a  frank  exposition  of 
his  embarrassed  sentiments.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
she  was  intelligent  as  well  as  trustworthy,  and  he  felt 
impelled  to  call  in  her  assistance,  being  sure  that  in 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  109 

any  cause  where  love  could  be  pleaded,  she  would 
show  a  judicious  leniency. 

"  If  you  have  not  observed  that  I  am  still — too 
interested,  you  have  not  observed  with  your  usual 
sagacity,"  said  he. 

"  I  think — if  I  may  say  so — that  time  seems  only 
to  deepen  a  sorrow  of  that  kind." 

"  Particularly  when  it  is  associated — as  in  this  case 
— with  a  certain  self-reproach.  In  times  of  trial  my 
pen  is  my  refuge.  I  could  not  write  for  a  year  after  I 
had  decided — irrevocably  as  I  believed — that  Sara  and 
I  could  not  make  each  other  happy." 

"  Then  you  never  actuall}'  proposed  to  her?  There 
was  never  any  tacit  understanding?" 

"  Never.  And  if  there  be  any  part  of  my  conduct 
in  life  upon  which  I  can  look  with  entire  satisfaction, 
it  is  my  behaviour  with  regard  to  Sara.  I  did  not 
mislead  her  in  any  way.  I  was  even  over-scrupulous, 
and  purposely  avoided  opportunities  of  meeting.  I 
say  this  in  order  that  you  may  know  how  very  deter- 
mined a  man's  will  must  be — if  he  does  not  wish  to 
be  selfish.  A  course  of  struggling  is  miserable  indeed. 
I  spared  her  any  knowledge  of  my  misery." 

"  She  might  have  been  happier  had  she  known  of 
it !  Last  year  she  remained  entirely  alone  ;  and  soli- 
tude is  full  of  bad  things — it  is  very  dangerous,  how- 
ever much  one  is  accustomed  to  it." 

"  Poor  girl !  But  I  could  not,  in  honour,  suffer  a 
false  impression  to  be  formed.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
my  family  wouldn't  hear  of  the  match.  There  is 
no  denying  that  they  were  set  on  my  marrying 
Agnes." 

At  last  he  had  been  able  to  mention  her.  He  leant 
back  and  relied  on  his  companion's  tact  to  elaborate 
the  theme. 


no  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

Pensee  murmured — 

"Dear  Agnes!  If  there  are  storms,  they  won't 
come  from  her  side.  She  is  of  a  very  elevated 
spirit " 

He  winced,  but  she  continued — 

"  Generous,  sternly  honest,  greatly  esteemed  by 
every  one.  Neither  pique  nor  passion  nor  petty  feel- 
ings could  ever  influence  her  mind.  She  is  the  most 
angelic,  good  woman  I  ever  met — she  is  one  to  whom 
one  may  complain,  and  be  a  bore.  She  has  such  utter 
patience !  " 

"You  would  not  be  impressed  by  professions  nor 
am  I  very  clever  at  making  them,"  said  he,  "  but  you 
know,  by  sympathy,  that  my  affection  for  her  is — is 
the  heroic  feeling  of  devotion  which  has  also  a  kind 
of  exclusiveness " 

He  could  not  finish  the  sentence. 

"  It  leads  you  to  imagine  that  you  could  never 
survive  her  loss,"  said  Pensee  gravely.  "  But  need 
you  lose  her — as  a  friend  ?  "  Something  in  his  coun- 
tenance encouraged  her  to  pursue  this  train  of  thought. 
"  Agnes  has  the  deepest  admiration  for  your  qualities. 
No  doubt,  you  truly  realise  the  high  standard  of 
character  which  she  would  hope  for  in  one  to  whom 
she  gave  her  love.  You  have  proved  yourself  worthy 
to  call  out  her  best  feelings." 

Reckage  was  very  touched  by  this  tribute. 

"  And  lier  best  feelings,"  said  he,  "  ought  to  make 
us — at  our  best — very  humble." 

Pensee  lifted  her  veil  just  above  her  eyes,  clasped 
her  hands  tightly  together,  and  kept  her  earnest  glance 
full  upon  his. 

"  I  believe,"  she  continued,  "  that  if  it  were  in  man, 
or  woman,  to  command  the  heart,  you  would  have  her 
entire  affection.     I  believe  she  is  unhappy.     During  the 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  in 

last  week  she  has  had  many  ups  and  downs.  She  has 
passed  with  astonishing  rapidity  from  the  lowest  despair 
to  the  height  of  joy.  She  has  tried  to  distract  her 
mind  by  incessant  occupation.  But  you  know  her 
manner — it  is  transparent  near  the  surface,  difificult  to 
sound  in  its  depths." 

"  Yes,  she  has  a  childlike  openness — up  to  a  certain 
point." 

"  I  can  only  tell  you,  therefore,  what  1  think,  judging 
as  a  woman,  by  outward  signs.  I  seem  to  detect  a  sort 
of  self-doubt — as  though  she  feared  making  some  error. 
She  has  become  of  late  strangely  intense  and  vivid — 
she  is  fascinated  by  books,  and  drawn  to  music,  as  she 
never  was  before.  Perhaps  she  sees  that  you  give  her 
a  priceless,  beautiful  friendship  which  must  indeed  be 
flattering.  Yet — yet  in  marriage  friendship  is  not 
enough.  So  she  is  acquiring  a  stock  of  interests  which 
are  impersonal." 

Loyalty  to  Agnes  forbade  any  reference  to  Angelo 
Rennes.  She  had  no  intention  of  giving  the  least  hint 
of  her  own  private  conviction  on  the  subject.  She  de- 
sired merely  that  Rcckage  should  learn  how  the  engage- 
ment might  be  broken  off  without  giving  unimaginable 
pain  to  the  young  lady.  The  move  under  this  aspect 
was  skilful  and  successful.  Reckage  received  her  words 
as  a  subtle  appeal  to  his  honour  and  kindness. 

He  said  at  once — 

"  I  am  glad  you  have  told  me  this.  I  could  bear  my 
own  mistakes.  I  could  not  bear  hers.  Let  me  look  at 
the  step  which  I  have  taken  !  The  choice  is  for  life. 
Agnes  is  inflexibly  conscientious  and  self-denying. 
Several  years  of  attachment  have  tried  us  both.  She 
knows  my  faults  ;  I  know  where  her  " — he  paused  for  a 
moment — "  her  qualities  might  clash  with  mine.  We 
spoke  of  this  together;  we  considered  every  circum- 


112  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

stance  that  could,  by  any  remote  chance,  weigh  against 
our  common  happiness." 

Pensee  shook  her  head. 

"  Of  course,  that  was  right,"  she  said  doubtfully. 

"  It  is  no  easy  matter  to  get  a  promise  from  Agnes," 
he  went  on  ;  "  but  when  once  given  it  is  inviolate. 
This  throws  a  grisly  responsibility  upon  me.  I  must 
risk  everything,  if  I  am  to  do  anything.  You  have 
expressed  a  dread  which  I  have  been  endeavouring  to 
stifle.     I  am  making  her  wretched." 

"  I  don't  say  that  you  are  making  her  wretched  ;  I 
say  she  seems  disturbed  and  unsettled  when  she  ought 
to  be  full  of  the  brightest  hopes." 

"Quite  so.  I  fear  the  unsettlement  is  exceedingly 
great.  A  neutrality  on  your  part  is  all  I  could  in 
reason  expect ;  but  your  counsel  in  such  a  grave 
matter " 

Pensee  summoned  all  her  energy,  and  breathed  a 
little  prayer  for  the  well-being  of  the  two  women  whose 
lives  were  at  stake. 

"  I  saw  Agnes  this  morning,"  she  said,  speaking  at  a 
rapid  pace  ;  "  she  came  up  for  some  shopping,  and  she 
returned  home  directly  after  tea." 

"  She  ought  to  have  told  me  that  she  was  in  town," 
he  exclaimed. 

"  My  dear  Beauclerk,  you  know  her  sweetness  !  She 
said,  *  I  don't  wish  to  take  up  his  time ;  an  engage- 
ment ought  not  to  be  a  servitude.'  That  is  the  reason 
why  she  did  not  tell  you." 

"  She  ought  to  have  told  me,"  he  repeated.  "  Such 
extreme  delicacy  was  most  uncalled  for.  It  wasn't 
even  friendly.  When  we  were  old  friends,  and  nothing 
more,  she  would  have  told  me." 

"Yes,  when  you  were  friends." 

"  I  think  she  gave  me  a  nasty  rap  in  so  acting ;  I  do, 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  113 

indeed.     One  would  infer  that   I  had  failed  in  some 
ordinary  attentiveness.     It  is  a  distinct  reprimand." 

"  You  are  quite  wrong.  She  meant  it  in  the  noblest 
way." 

"  Then  it  is  a  desperately  near  thing  between  noble 
conduct  and  a  downright  snub.  I  can't  help  lashing 
about  it." 

In  Pensee's  own  private  perception  this  outburst  of 
temper  Avas  no  bad  sign.  It  convinced  her,  at  least,  of 
the  sincerity  of  his  feelings  towards  Agnes  and  his 
genuine  desire  to  behave  well  at  every  point  in  their 
relationship. 

"Don't  you  understand,"  she  said,  "that  Agnes 
dares  not  love  you.  This  being  the  case,  I  cannot  see 
that  she  could  go  on  in  what  might  be  called  a  natural 
way.  Will  you  bear  with  me,  and,  if  I  am  indiscreet, 
forgive  me  ?  She  wants  all  the  sympathy  and  support 
she  can  get.  She  is  suffering  very  much  from  want  of 
courage.  She  trusts,  perhaps,  in  her  friends'  prayers. 
It  seems  as  though  something  very  momentous  were 
going  on,  but  that  she  has  nothing  to  do  but  to  wait 
for  it.  I  think  there  may  be  a  way  out  still ;  may  God 
overrule  people's  hearts." 

She  had  never  intended  to  say  so  much,  and  she 
trembled  with  an  excitement  which  she  could  not 
subdue. 

"  I  must  admit,"  said  Reckage,  "  that  for  some  time 
I  have  had  a  conviction,  weaker  or  stronger,  but,  on 
the  whole,  constantly  growing,  that  Agnes  and  I  are 
unsuited  to  each  other.  I  am  too  much  accustomed  to 
this  idea  to  feel  pain  at  it." 

"  O,  it  makes  my  heart  ache— I  mean  so  much  pain- 
fulness  for  every  one  concerned  !  " 

"  This  conviction  must,  sooner  or  later,  lead  me  to 
action.     The  world  is  indulgent  to  the  impetuous,  be- 
8 


114  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

cause  they  appear  strong ;  and  it  is  most  severe  to 
those  who  hesitate,  because  hesitation  is  taken  for  a  sign 
of  weakness.  Lookers-on  have  no  patience  with  moral 
combats — and  least  of  all  in  affairs  of  this  kind.  But 
no  opinion  will  force  me  to  do  what  I  do  not  think 
right.  If  our  engagement  is  a  mistake,  I  don't  intend 
to  '  lump  it,'  as  they  say.  We  must  mend  the  evil. 
And,  thank  God,  it  is  not  too  late.  The  merciful  part 
is  that  in  relieving  my  own  mind  I  shall  also  greatly  re- 
lieve hers.  It  is  clear  she  doesn't  love  me.  This  last 
act  proves  the  fact  conclusively." 

Pensee  did  not  agree  with  this,  but  she  remained 
silent,  fearing  lest  a  rash  word  should  spoil  her  good 
work. 

"  For  a  long,  long  time,"  he  continued,  "  my  con- 
stant question  has  been,  'Can  this  last?  is  it  a  delu- 
sion ?  '  But  I  do  not  shut  my  eyes  now.  I  knew  they 
were  all  wrong  at  home  when  they  made  out  that  she 
was  in  love  with  me,  and  expected  me  to  propose. 
We  are  both  the  victims  of  an  impertinent,  if  well- 
meant,  interference — what  Robert  calls  '  the  jabbering 
of  the  damned.'  Poor  Robert,  we  are  forgetting  him. 
I  am  ashamed  to  talk  so  much  about  myself." 

**  In  his  case,  I  see  no  help  but  resignation  to  the 
will  of  God,"  said  Pensee. 

"  But  that  resignation  is  an  awful  thing,"  said  Reek- 
age.  "  It  is  a  shade  better  than  the  atheism  of  despair  ; 
yet  only  a  shade  better." 

By  degrees  Pensee  was  learning  why  Robert  had 
such  a  strong,  tenacious  attachment  to  this  man.  He 
was  always  faithful  to  his  mood.  All  he  did  and  all 
he  said  represented  accurately  all  he  thought  and  all 
he  felt.  Some  live  a  dual  life — he  lived  but  one  ;  and, 
with  his  faults,  peculiarities,  and  egoism,  there  was 
never  the   least  dissimulation.     It  was  true   that,    if 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  115 

occasion  required,  he  could  hold  his  tongue  ;  but  he 
abhorred  tact  and  hated  doctrines  of  expediency — 
everything,  in  fact,  which  put  any  restraint  upon  the 
"  development  of  his  inclinations." 

The  train  was  now  approaching  Dover.  He  de- 
cided to  put  his  own  troubles  aside,  and,  out  of  mere 
decency,  concentrate  his  thoughts  on  the  severe  trial 
in  store  for  Orange. 

"  This  business  about  Parflete,"  said  he,  "  is  a  great 
blow.  One  becomes  indifferent  to  what  is  said  of,  or 
done  to,  one's  self ;  but  that  all  this  painful,  sadden- 
ing, sickening  trouble  should  come  upon  Robert  is  too 
bad.  It  seems  a  kind  of  hacking  and  hacking  bit  by 
bit." 

"You  are  certainly  very  fond  of  him,"  said  Pensee. 

"  Yes,  I  am.     He's  so  dependable." 

Pensee  engaged  a  private  cabin  for  the  crossing,  and 
she  retired  there  with  her  maid.  Too  tired,  and  over- 
strung, to  sleep,  she  lay  down,  closed  her  eyes,  and 
lived  again  through  the  many  fatiguing,  agitating 
moments  of  that  day.  Her  affection  for  Orange  had 
been  so  steeped  in  hopelessness  from  the  hour,  months 
before,  when  he  told  her  of  his  love  for  Brigit,  that 
the  wedding  of  these  two  had  been  a  relief  rather  than 
a  final  anguish.  The  agonising  possibilities  which  had 
sometimes  darted  into  her  mind  would  never  again 
surprise  her  :  the  questions  which  she  had  always 
striven  to  prohibit  were  no  longer  even  in  existence. 
He  had  taken  the  unredeemable  step  :  he  was  married. 
Jealousy  had  no  part  in  her  suffering.  Robert  had 
never  given  her  the  smallest  right  to  feel  slighted,  or 
neglected,  or  abandoned.  Some  women  are  jealous 
by  temperament,  but  the  greater  number  are  jealous 
only  when  their  trust  is  insulted,  or  their  dignity 
brought  down  to  the  humiliating  struggle  for  a  lost 


ii6  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

empire.  Empire  over  Orange  she  had  never  possessed 
or  claimed  :  she  could  feel  no  bitterness,  therefore,  at 
the  thought  of  the  small  place  she  occupied  in  his 
destiny.  The  sorrow  which  cut  and  severed  her  heart 
was  loneliness.  She  felt  that,  after  the  wedding,  she 
could  hardly  do  anything  or  take  interest  in  anything. 
It  seemed  as  if  the  waters  were  gathered  in  heaps  on 
either  side  :  things,  she  thought,  could  not  be  better, 
or  worse.  God  was  with  her  still,  and  her  children — 
her  dear  children — were  with  her  still,  but  she  could 
not  disguise  the  greatness  of  her  loss.  Her  single  wish, 
as  far  as  she  dared  have  a  wish,  had  been  to  benefit 
Robert  and  to  win  his  confidence.  She  had  seen  his 
mind  working  in  various  directions,  and  although  she 
was  not,  in  the  faintest  sense,  his  fit  companion  intel- 
lectually, she  had  a  knowledge  and  experience  of  life 
which  made  her  friendship  valuable — a  gift  worth  offer- 
ing to  any  man.  She  had  been  able  to  advise  him. 
Brigit  now  had  even  this  privilege  also.  "  I  shall  seem 
an  intruder,"  thought  Pens^e,  again  and  again. 

It  was  altogether  a  terrible  crisis.  How  she  should 
struggle  through  all  the  parts  of  it,  or  what  she  should 
be  when  it  was  over,  she  could  not  trust  herself  to  say. 
The  world  seemed  too  heavy  a  burden  to  be  fought 
against.  Yet  with  what  thoughts  and  aspirations  and 
earnest  prayers  she  had  stood  by  Brigit's  side  at  the 
altar  rails.  She  had  been  given  a  supernatural  strength 
for  the  marriage  ceremony.  She  was  by  nature  and 
before  all  things,  from  first  to  last,  unalterably  a  good 
friend,  and  at  that  moment  of  intensest  difificulty  the 
sight  of  Robert's  happiness  had  made  her  oblivious  to 
every  other  consideration.  Glad  tears  had  risen  to  her 
eyes.  She  had  been  swayed  by  one  feeling — a  deep, 
sincere  thankfulness  that  his  love-story,  which  had 
promised  sorrow  only   from  the  very  beginning,  was 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  117 

ending,  unexpectedly,  so  well.  She  might  have  feared 
that  he  was  changing  one  form  of  unhappiness  for  an- 
other, but  she  knew  his  impatient  spirit,  and,  knowing 
it,  she  could  not  imagine  that  any  earthly  pain  could 
try  him  so  sorely  as  a  lifelong  separation  from  the  one 
woman  he  loved — loved  to  the  pitch  of  madness. 

And  then — in  one  moment — the  strange  tidings 
came  which  drove  her  from  the  stupor  of  resignation 
to  fevers  of  anxiety  more  consuming  than  any  she  had 
ever  felt  before.  A  great  flame,  successive  flames,  of 
terror  swept  over  her,  as  she  feigned  placid  sleep  in 
the  little  cabin,  at  the  thought  of  the  news  poor  Reek- 
age  would  have  to  break  on  the  morrow.  How  would 
Robert  bear  it  ?  That  he  would  act  a  noble  and  true 
part  she  could  not  doubt.  But  at  a  certain  degree  of 
suffering,  the  strongest  man  can  think  of  nothing  ex- 
cept himself,  and  she  felt  already,  in  anticipation,  the 
dumb  torture  she  would  have  to  endure  in  looking  on, 
helpless  and  unnoticed,  at  an  agony  which  she  could 
neither  share  nor  relieve.  The  fear  of  losing  him  had 
been  dreadful,  but  it  was  even  more  dreadful  to  know 
that  although  she  might  have,  after  all,  a  certain  right 
now  to  ofler  him  sympathy,  she  could  never  make  him 
happy,  that  she  could  never  hope  to  learn  the  secret 
regrets,  griefs,  and  torments,  the  unspoken  broodings 
which  would  surely  enough  prey  upon  his  spirit.  She 
pictured  herself  sitting  at  his  side,  or  walking  with  him 
for  hours — he  absorbed  in  his  own  sorrowful  thoughts, 
she  striving  vainly  to  distract  him  by  a  tinkling  prattle 
on  every  topic  except  the  one  nearest  his  heart.  O, 
how  fearfully  wide  asunder  they  were!  A  sensation 
of  the  enormous  distance  which  can  exist  between  two 
souls  in  daily  companionship  filled  her  with  a  sicken- 
ing, shivering  heaviness.  She  thought  she  would  have 
to  cry  out  because  of  the  slow  fire  which  seemed  to 


Il8  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

scorch  her  dry  and  aching  eyes.  Robert  would  never 
really  need  her,  never  really  care  about  her.  This  new 
trouble  would  take  him  farther  away  than  ever.  He 
would  burn  all  his  ships,  and  any  poor  little  tenderness 
he  might  have  had  in  the  past  for  her,  with  them. 
Some  great  revulsion  would  take  place  in  his  charac- 
ter :  he  would  perhaps  grow  silent,  reserved,  enigmatic, 
his  face  would  show  to  the  world  the  terrible,  false, 
unknowable  peace,  which  is  the  veil  of  the  dead.  It 
was  useless  to  smooth  her  difificulties  which  existed. 
It  was  foolish  and  wrong  to  encourage  herself  in  unreal 
ideas  about  him.  It  was  best  always  to  be  straight- 
forward and  admit  the  truth — no  matter  how  bitter. 
And  yet  he  had  been  kind  and  helpful  to  her  in  a  way 
in  which  scarce  any  one  else  could  have  been.  She 
clung  to  the  belief  that  she  would  be  able  to  do  some- 
thing to  make  his  hour  of  trial  less  severe.  The  hope 
which  insinuates  itself  into  every  unrequited  love  still 
lingered.  He  could  at  least  always  talk  to  her  about 
Brigit  :  that  common  memory  would  be  a  constant 
link  between  them.  She  had  earned  his  esteem,  and 
perhaps  with  his  esteem  an  affection  deeper  than  he 
himself  realised.  Under  the  pressure  of  a  sudden  and 
tragical  necessity,  he  would  turn  to  her  with  the  cer- 
tainty that  she  would  not  fail  him.  She  was  modest 
enough  about  her  own  powers.  A  remark  she  had 
once  heard  Reckage  pass,  to  the  effect  that  religious 
women  of  devoted  lives  were  unhappily  conspicuous, 
as  a  rule,  for  feebleness  of  mind  and  strength  of  preju- 
dice, haunted  her  as  a  kind  of  doom  from  which  there 
was  no  appeal.  She  knew,  too,  the  verdict  usually 
passed  on  those  of  either  sex  who  have  the  courage  to 
maintain  an  unselfish  attitude  whether  toward  God  oi 
some  fellow-creature.  But  here  she  comforted  her- 
self by  deciding  that  her  utter  isolation  in  this  universe 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  119 

rested  on  the  fact  that  she  did  not  much  deserve  to  be 
loved  by  anybody.  This  granted — not  without  a  pang 
— she  felt  the  signs  of  weariness  in  her  heart,  but  none 
of  wavering.  She  resolved  to  be  foolish  in  the  eyes  of 
the  self-satisfied. 

Lord  Reckage  meanwhile  was  pacing  the  deck. 
His  conversation  with  Pens^e  had  cast  a  darkness  over 
his  spirit.  He  had  made  up  his  mind,  weeks  before, 
that  the  marriage  years  of  his  life  would  be  the  best, 
the  most  distinguished,  and  most  useful.  With  the 
utmost  pains  he  had  chosen  a  wife.  He  had  acted 
with  the  greatest  caution  in  no  weak  or  superficial  or 
haphazard,  or  fitful  way.  Nevertheless,  the  outlook 
was  dismal.  This  first  step  in  decline  from  his  ideal 
caused  him  much  pain  and  restlessness,  and  led  him  to 
think  cynically  of  many  doctrines  to  which,  in  serene 
moments,  he  had  unconditionally  subscribed.  He 
compared  his  own  case  with  Robert's.  Robert,  in 
his  headstrong  passion,  had  certainly  rattled  up  sleep- 
ing lions,  heedless  of  all  consequences,  and  in  defiance 
of  every  warning.  He  had  now  met,  poor  fellow,  with 
an  appalling  chastisement,  but  could  any  one  pretend 
that  he  had  not  brought  it,  to  a  great  extent,  upon 
himself?  He  (Reckage),  however, had  behaved,  from 
first  to  last,  in  an  unexceptionable  manner.  He  had 
studiously  avoided  the  one  girl  of  whom  he  was  in- 
clined to  be  immoderately  fond.  It  was  true  that  he 
had  practised  this  restraint  less  in  her  interest  than 
his  own.  But  this  was  because  he  feared — as  every 
creature  will  fear  by  instinct  its  mortal  enemy — the 
power  of  an  ardent  attachment.  His  mind  had  re- 
volted in  a  panic  at  the  thought  of  becoming  depend- 
ent on  a  woman's  humours  ;  the  noblest  of  the  sex  were 
capricious,  and  far  and  away  the  best  course  was  to  se- 
lect a  partner  whose  unavoidable  nonsense  would  leave 


120  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

one,  merely  from  indifference,  undisturbed.  Sara  de 
Treverell,  in  the  past,  had  been,  by  her  vagaries,  di- 
rectly responsible  for  several  sleepless  nights,  and  a 
sleepless  night  was  one  of  the  few  things  he  simply 
could  not  stand.  Thoughts  of  her  had  seemed  to  un- 
fit him  for  his  work,  to  weaken  his  nerves,  to  act,  in 
various  ways,  to  his  disadvantage.  She  had  been  exact- 
ing in  her  demands  upon  his  nature.  They  were  not  ut- 
tered demands,  or  demands  which  he  could  formulate, 
buthe  had  been  conscious  of  them  always.  He  had 
been  obliged  to  pause  and  ask  himself  at  every  thought, 
at  every  step — "What  would  Sara  say  to  this?"  It 
was  a  tyranny — if  not  a  species  of  witchcraft.  And 
so  he  had  determined  to  see  her  no  more.  Following 
the  usual,  most  correct  method  in  such  procedures,  he 
went  abroad.  After  a  week  of  irritating  meditations, 
furtive,  all  but  unconquerable  desires,  after  he  had 
passed  the  day  on  which  it  had  been  his  custom  for 
months  to  call  upon  her,  after  he  had  learned  how  to 
discipline  the  hours  he  had  used  to  spend  riding  with 
her  in  the  Row,  he  felt  as  a  convalescent  after  some 
exhausting  malady — quiescent,  dulled,  possessed  by  a 
drowsy  stupidity,  inaccessible  to  any  serious  emotion. 
He  was  cured  of  his  fancy  although  no  effort  of  will 
could  protect  the  soreness  of  the  bruise.  He  had  per- 
severed in  his  course  of  treatment — congratulating 
himself,  at  the  end,  on  his  escape  from  a  dangerous 
obsession.  The  picture  of  Sara  grew  paler  and  paler 
before  his  eyes — indeed,  it  seemed  to  fade  all  too 
quickly,  and,  with  the  perversity  of  consistent  egoism, 
he  felt  many  twinges  of  sadness  to  think  that  he  had 
forgotten  her  so  soon.  His  vanity  would  have  pre- 
ferred a  longer  combat — for  even  the  most  shallow 
admit  the  romantic  admirableness  of  an  obstinate  love. 
Still,  what  could  he  ask  better  than  this  triumph  over 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  I2I 

a  cruel,  an  obstructive  memory?  He  had  regained, 
so  he  believed,  his  old  independence  as  the  man  of 
action,  energetic,  self-controlled,  moved  by  one  pas- 
sion only,  and  that  the  finest  of  all — ambition.  In 
surveying  once  more  the  great  design  of  his  career,  he 
found  it  an  effort  to  bring  up — from  the  far  recesses 
of  his  experience,  the  poor  little  sentimental  episode, 
so  insignificant  and  commonplace,  which,  in  a  kind  of 
aberration,  he  had  taken  for  an  affair  of  the  heart. 
He  returned  to  England.  He  threw  himself  with 
vigour  into  the  questions  which  were  then  disturbing 
Churchmen.  He  revived  a  touching  acquaintance 
with  Agnes  Carillon — an  acquaintance  which  was  pe- 
culiarly soothing  to  his  preoccupied  mind.  Here  was 
a  girl,  he  thought,  who  could  be  a  fit  helpmate.  She 
asked  for  nothing,  absorbed  nothing,  and  gave  a  great 
deal  of  gentle,  kind  companionship  when  he  wanted 
it.  When  he  did  not  want  it,  she  understood  per- 
fectly— possessing,  in  an  eminent  degree,  the  rare  do- 
mestic art  of  being  able  to  make  herself  scarce — alike 
in  his  thoughts  and  his  engagements.  The  truths  did 
not  occur  to  him  that  a  woman  in  love  could  never 
have  been  so  unnaturally  prudent,  or  that  a  woman 
whom  he  loved  could  not  have  interested  him  so 
slightly.  He  took  great  pride  in  her  perfect  skin  and 
hair  and  eyes,  in  her  beautiful,  graceful,  and  gracious 
manners,  but  his  soul  never  kindled  at  her  approach, 
his  pulse  beat  no  slower  at  her  departure.  He  requited 
her  agreeableness  with  respect.  And  so  they  had  be- 
come engaged — to  the  unbounded  gratification  of  all 
his  relatives,  amidst  the  congratulations  of  his  friends. 
There  seemed  a  certain  shadowiness  in  his  conception 
of  their  future  existence  together  as  man  and  wife  : 
something  which  he  recognised  as  an  interior  voice 
chimed  in,  from  time  to  time,  with  provoking  interro- 


122  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

gations,  mostly  unanswerable.  A  plaintive  need  of 
happiness,  melancholy,  obscure,  but  recurrent,  mixed 
in  his  fluctuating  thoughts.  Finally,  it  pursued  him, 
haunted  him,  and  caught  him  with  the  strange  tenacity 
of  an  incorporeal  grasp.  Sara,  now  dethroned  from 
her  place  of  power,  loomed  in  all  his  dreams.  Irresist- 
ibly, he  was  drawn  toward  the  forbidden  recollection 
of  her  delightfulness.  There  seemed,  no  longer,  any 
danger  in  these  musings.  He  had  entrusted  his  actual 
life  to  the  safekeeping  of  the  nicest  woman  he  had 
ever  known.  Where  then  was  the  harm  in  harking 
back,  merely  in  reverie,  to  the  frivolous,  amusing  phan- 
tom of  a  renounced  sentiment  ?  Yet,  after  a  reverie 
of  the  kind,  why  did  he  often  wonder  how  he  and 
Agnes  could  look  in  one  another's  faces  and  pretend 
to  any  sort  of  real  intimacy  ?  Sara  knew  him  better 
than  he  knew  himself.  Her  sympathy  ran  into  a  hun- 
dred sinuosities — she  understood  his  silence  as  well  as 
his  conversation.  He  was  never  conscious  of  the 
smallest  strain,  the  least  dissimulation  in  her  society. 
Beneath  their  curious  disparities  an  identity  seemed 
to  unite  them.  There  was  an  unrepenting  quality  in 
her  conscience  which  braced  and  stimulated  his  moral 
courage.  Agnes,  on  the  contrary,  with  her  instinct  of 
behaviour,  made  him  over-cautious  and  encouraged  the 
tendency  to  indecision  which  interfered  with  the  com- 
fortable balance  of  his  soul.  And  he  wished  his  facul- 
ties to  work  with  astronomic  punctuality.  It  is  cer- 
tain, however,  that  he  would  have  accepted  his  choice 
as  a  thing  settled  beyond  any  readjustment,  but  for 
the  news  of  the  Duke  of  Marshire's  proposal,  and  the 
sight  of  Sara  herself  on  the  fatal  afternoon  when  he 
was  feeling  especially  forlorn.  She  had  thrown  him  a 
glance  in  which  defiance,  disdain,  and  an  indistinct 
affection  were  blended  in   one    provoking  dart.     He 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  133 

was  a  moralist  who  believed  that  there  is  always, 
between  men  and  women,  the  dormant  principles  of 
mistrust  and  hatred.  He  had  discussed  this  theory 
frequently  with  Robert,  who  found  the  notion  as 
repulsive  as  it  was  false.  But  it  seemed  a  truth  be- 
yond contradiction  to  Reckage,  who  possessed,  in  his 
own  mind,  constant  irrefutable  testimony  in  support 
of  the  view.  Sara  had  never  before  defied  him.  She 
had  never  before  seemed  to  feel  her  power  as  a  creature 
incomparably  superior  in  brilliancy  to  all  the  other 
girls  in  their  circle.  She  had  never  before  seemed  to 
pity  him  as  a  man  who  had  feared  to  do  what  Marshire 
— a  being  considered  remarkable  onl}^  for  his  family 
and  his  fortune — had  boldly,  gladly  volunteered  to 
carry  out  to  the  ultimate  consequence.  That  glance 
pierced  his  self-love,  his  pride,  his  will.  After  his  long 
hesitations,  after  the  wearisome,  interminable  debates 
between  his  judgment  and  his  inclination,  he  decided 
suddenly,  all  at  once,  without  further  reflection,  that 
he  no  longer  belonged  to  himself.  He  was  the  slave 
once  more  of  doubts,  fears,  and  temptations.  His 
excited  nerves  and  troubled  senses  asserted  their  right 
to  be  regarded  as  threads,  at  least,  in  the  web  of 
destiny.  From  the  hour  of  that  chance  encounter  in 
the  Park,  till  he  and  Sara  met  at  Lord  Garrow's  that 
day,  he  had  not  been  able  to  escape  from  the  inex- 
orable cruelty  of  an  ill-used  passion,  once  more  in  full 
command.  Every  individual  has  his  rule — could  one 
but  find  it  out — and  a  rule  to  which  there  are  no  ex- 
ceptions. With  Reckage  it  was  simple  enough  :  he 
invariably  followed  the  line  of  his  own  glory.  The 
distress  he  suffered — really,  and  not  colourably — took 
its  rise  from  the  intervention  of  Marshire.  He  felt  as 
a  racing  man  feels  when  he  sees  a  friendless  horse, 
which   he   might   have    purchased,   beat   the    Derby 


124  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

favourite  by  some  three  lengths  and  a  half.  He  winced 
at  the  suspicion  that  he  had  committed  an  error  in 
judgment,  and  lost  a  great  opportunity.  The  words 
of  Sir  Piers  Harding  on  the  subject  of  audacity  in  love 
had  fallen  on  his  ears  with  startling  force.  It  was  an 
illustration  of  that  old  saying — "  The  appetite,  the  oc- 
casion, and  the  ripe  fruit."  Convinced  now  that  his 
reputation,  his  career,  and  his  comfort  depended  on 
his  conduct  toward  Sara,  all  hesitation  left  him.  He 
would  have  to  drive  Marshire,  in  confusion,  from  the 
field,  and  bear  away  the  prize  himself.  Pensee's  ob- 
servations with  regard  to  Agnes  had  cleared  away 
most,  if  not  all,  of  his  difficulties  in  that  particular 
quarter.  No  one  had  ever  accused  him  of  cowardice. 
Whenever  he  took  refuge  in  procrastination  or  deceit, 
it  was  never  because  he  was  afraid,  but  in  order  that 
nothing  might  interfere  with  the  purpose  he  had  in 
hand.  The  growing  miseries  of  the  situation  which 
he  saw,  already  in  part,  served  only  to  augment  the 
violence  of  his  resolve.  His  vanity  forbade  him  to 
believe  that  Agnes  would  not  suffer  very  much  when 
he  told  her,  as  he  intended,  that  they  had  both  mis- 
taken a  profound  esteem — based  on  reason — for  love, 
which,  as  all  the  world  admits,  is  something  remote 
indeed  from  one's  will  and  one's  power.  He  was  de- 
sirous to  remain  her  friend,  but  he  could  not,  without 
insincerity — and  by  God's  grace,  he  would  not — con- 
tinue longer  in  a  position  which  was  false  in  itself  and 
an  injustice  to  each  of  them.  He  proposed  to  dwell 
very  frankly,  but  in  deep  sadness,  on  the  fact  that  al- 
though their  engagement  had  been  a  seeming  success 
— outwardly — the  success  had  been  by  no  means 
proved  either  to  his  satisfaction,  or,  he  ventured  to 
think,  to  hers.  He  would  pray  that  she  would  not 
consider  herself  under  any  restraint  in  speaking  freely 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  125 

to  him,  from  her  heart,  at  all  times.  He  hoped  that 
the  inevitable  criticism  of  malicious  or  ignorant  per- 
sons would  never  shake  her  faith  in  his  unwavering 
loyalty,  his  singular  desire  for  her  happiness.  On  the 
other  hand  he  did  not  wish  to  involve  her  in  justifying 
his  action  to  the  world.  There  was  no  call  for  that. 
She  might  be  assured  that  he  would  do  as  little  as 
possible  to  protract  the  agony — he  used  the  word  ad- 
visedly— of  their  separation.  He  believed  it  would  be 
the  best  way — if  God  gave  them  the  ability — not  to 
meet  until  they  had  trained  themselves  to  the  peaceful, 
sweet  relationship  of  their  first  acquaintance.  All  this 
and  more  he  composed  and  turned  over  in  his  mind  as 
he  paced  the  deck.  His  eyes  frequently  filled  with 
tears,  and  he  thought  how  little,  how  fearfully  little, 
he  had  ever  suspected  this  severance  from  a  noble  life 
with  which  he  had  wished  most  earnestly  to  join  his 
own.  He  was  unhappy  according  to  the  measure  of 
his  capacity,  and  he  was  genuine  in  so  far  as  he  regret- 
ted the  necessary  suffering  of  the  innocent  with  the 
guilty.  But  guilt  is  in  the  intention,  and  he  could 
say,  with  truth,  that  he  had  never  intended  to  give 
pain,  or  to  make  trouble,  in  his  life. 


126  ROBERT  ORANGE. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

The  Southampton  steamer  approached  St.  Male 
about  three  o'clock  on  the  following  afternoon.  Robert 
and  Brigit  had  spent  the  night  on  deck — it  was  better 
than  going  below  into  the  close,  dreary  cabin — and  so 
they  counted  the  stars,  and  kept  their  gaze,  through  the 
vast  reaches  of  atmosphere,  for  the  first  sight  of  land. 
The  moon,  then  at  its  full  strength,  lit  up  the  whole 
blue  dome  above  them,  and  cast  its  glancing,  silver 
path  upon  the  water — a  path  which  the  ship  ever  crossed 
but  never  followed.  On  and  on  they  sped,  and,  as  their 
ears  grew  accustomed  to  the  monotonous  churning  of 
the  paddle-wheels,  the  silence  seemed  intense.  The 
splendour  of  the  night  made  sleep,  to  minds  as  pas- 
sionate as  theirs  toward  all  manifestations  of  the  world's 
beauty,  impossible.  Unconscious  of  any  particular 
thought,  they  shared  a  dreamless  reverie  which  was  so 
perfect  in  its  rest  and  so  complete  in  its  still  content- 
ment that  they  did  not  know  that  they  were  resting, 
nor  could  they  realise  that  such  sweet  hours,  even  as 
bitter  ones,  do  not  loiter  in  their  passing  or  come  again. 
Soon  enough  Robert  saw  himself  very  far  gone  from 
the  undissembled  sternness  of  his  old  resolutions.  If 
he  could  but  be  rid  of  that  altogether  !  He  thought  he 
had  obtained  a  mystic  recognition  of  the  terrorless  but 
uncommunicating  Joy  of  life  which  while  men  live 
they  pursue,  desiring  it  with  the  one  human  craving 
which  survives  every  misfortune,  every  thwarted  hope, 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  127 

all  enslavement  of  the  heart's  small  freedom — the  thirst 
for  happiness.  Was  man,  whom  God  had  made  in  His 
own  Image,  but  a  shadow  on  the  unstable  wind  ? 
Could  it  be  true  that  he  came  in  with  vanity  and  de- 
parted in  darkness,  his  soul  bereft  of  God,  knowing 
not  his  time,  finding  not  the  work  that  is  done  under 
the  sun,  born  to  companion  worms  in  the  dust? 
Should  he  remain  unresisting  and  without  influence  on 
the  decision  of  his  own  destiny  ?  Yet  he  remembered 
the  precept  of  Christ :  "  Whosoever  will  save  his  life  shall 
lose  it :  and  whosoever  will  lose  his  life  for  My  sake  shall 
find  it " — words  which  put  forth  a  great  mystery,  per- 
haps a  warning.  Plainly,  in  all  that  a  man  could  bring 
to  the  world,  or  take  from  it,  there  was  vanity  and 
death  ;  but  many  things  were  vain  merely  because  they 
were  not  eternal,  and  many  things  perished  because  where 
life  is,  change  must  be.  Immutable,  permanent  posses- 
sions were  the  gifts  of  God  to  men.  But  the  gifts  of 
men  to  God  would  always  be  imperfect — whether  they 
offered  the  sacrifice  of  their  wills  or  their  imagined 
earthly  happiness.  Yet  if  this  imperfection  were  a 
mean  one,  something  less  grand  than  the  immeasurable 
sanctity  of  Divine  strength  made  human  and  therefore 
sorrowful,  therefore  not  omnipotent,  therefore  liable  to 
error — where  then  was  the  merit  of  renouncing  a  man- 
hood already  too  squalid  to  be  endured,  friends  that 
were  phantoms,  loves  that  were  lies,  joys  that  were 
void  promises  invented  by  the  cruel  for  the  disappoint- 
ment of  the  foolish  ?  He  looked  down  at  Brigit,  who, 
wrapped  in  her  furs,  was  stretched  out  by  his  side,  her 
beautiful,  child-like  countenance  turned  toward  him, 
smiling  in  faith  and  deep  unspeakable  tenderness.  He 
could  hear  her  tremulous  breath  and  catch  the  fragrance 
of  her  face,  which,  in  the  moonlight,  seemed  as  white 
and   delicate   as   a   cloud.     The   knowledge   that   she 


128  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

belonged  to  him  at  last  entered  into  his  heart,  his 
blood,  his  brain,  his  thoughts,  became  the  very  life 
within  his  life — an  element  which  was  neither  wholly 
love  nor  wholly  passion,  but  a  necessity  from  which  he 
could  not  depart  and  without  which  he  would  cease  to 
be.  All  men  need  to  have  near  them,  allied  in  close 
association  with  them,  either  a  force  to  strengthen  their 
weakness  or  else  a  weakness  which  insists  upon  some 
demonstration  of  their  strength.  In  conceivable  cir- 
cumstances it  might  be  a  duty  to  dissever  such  a  bond  ; 
it  might  be  a  duty  to  die  of  starvation  rather  than 
steal  a  loaf,  and,  as  death  would  ultimately  quench  the 
craving  stomach,  so  a  broken  soul,  in  time,  would  cease 
lamenting  for  its  maimed  energy.  Let  heart-sickness 
pass  beyond  a  certain  bitter-point  and  the  heart  loses 
its  life  for  ever.  Had  Robert's  marriage  been  im- 
possible, had  he  decided,  on  that  account,  to  go  away 
from  Brigit's  influence,  had  he  vowed,  in  some  paroxysm 
of  despair,  to  see  her  no  more,  to  pluck  out  his  eye — to 
forget  her — what  would  have  happened  ?  Would  he 
have  been  able  to  say  to  himself  at  the  end  of  three 
years,  seven  years,  nine  years,  "  I  did  my  duty.  I  have 
my  reward  "  ?  Is  it  so  easy  even  to  acquiesce  in  the 
great  bereavements  caused  naturally,  against  our  will, 
by  death  ?  Does  one  ever,  in  the  hidden  depths  of  the 
mind,  mistake  the  cinders  of  a  consumed  anguish  for 
the  stars  of  peace?  A  man  need  not  be  a  prophet  in 
order  to  foresee  the  efTect  of  certain  measures  on  his 
own  character.  Indeed,  if  self-knowledge  be  not 
regarded  as  a  sentinel  to  the  judgment,  its  laborious 
acquisition  would  be  worth  the  travail  of  no  honest 
will.  Gained,  it  remains  like  an  interdict  upon  all 
undertakings,  projects,  ambitions,  setting  forth  clearly 
all  that  one  may,  or  may  not,  attempt  in  common  life, 
and,  above  all,  in  heroism — heroism  understood  truly, 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  129 

not  the  false  ideals  of  idle,  untaxed  sentiment.  Robert 
shrank  from  examining  the  sharpest  nail  of  the  several 
which  had  been  piercing  his  heart  for  weeks — from  the 
day  when  he  had  first  received  the  news  of  Parflete's 
death.  Had  he  not  often  suspected,  until  then,  that, 
for  some  reason,  he  had  been  called  to  renounce  the 
hope  of  marriage?  True,  he  had  never  been  certain  of 
this,  and,  certainly,  the  chain  of  events,  even  considered 
without  prejudice,  seemed  altogether  favourable  to  an 
opposite  view.  His  resolution  had  been  to  remain 
single  so  long  as  he  could  not  marry  the  woman  of  his 
choice.  Firmly  enough  he  had  taken  his  stand  on  that 
ground,  realising  to  the  utmost  every  difificulty  to  be 
encountered,  every  interest  to  be  thrown  aside,  from 
the  exigencies  of  such  a  position.  The  misunder- 
standings which  would  arise,  the  restraint,  the  loneli- 
ness, the  possible  morbidity  of  his  own  feeling,  the  sure 
absence  of  charity  in  all  outside  criticism  of  his  con- 
duct, were  not  overlooked  or  under-estimated  by  a  man 
so  versed  as  himself  in  the  tariff  of  the  market-place. 
He  had  known  full  well  that  his  decision,  robbed  of  its 
romantic  and  picturesque  motives,  would  affect  very 
seriously  every  step  in  his  career,  and  influence,  as  only 
violence  to  one's  human  affections  can  influence,  his 
character,  his  mode  of  thought,  his  whole  view  of  life 
and  his  work  in  life.  This  he  had  known — known, 
that  is  to  say,  as  much  as  anything  may  be  known  of  a 
plan  not  yet  executed  and  destined  to  a  slow  accom- 
plishment which  finds  its  final  seal  of  success  or  failure 
neither  in  this  existence  nor  in  death,  but  beyond  the 
grave.  Now,  however,  that  the  exterior  obstacles  to 
a  happier  scheme  were  apparently  removed,  the  more 
formidable  opposition  of  his  own  secret  ideals  stirred 
ominously  in  his  conscience.  Men's  designs  are  never 
so  indefinite  and  confused  as  when  they  meet  with  no 
9 


I30  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

outward  resistance.  A  close  attack  has  proved  the 
salvation  of  most  human  wills  and  roused  the  energy 
of  many  drooping  convictions.  It  is  seldom  good  that 
one  should  enter  into  any  vocation  very  easily,  sweetly, 
and  without  strife.  The  best  apprenticeships,  whether 
ecclesiastical  or  religious,  or  civil  or  military,  or  political 
or  artistic,  are  never  the  most  calm.  Whether  we 
study  the  lives  of  saints  or  the  lives  of  those  distin- 
guished in  any  walk  of  human  endeavour  where  perfec- 
tion, in  some  degree  or  other,  has  been  at  least  the  goal, 
we  always  find  that  the  first  years  of  the  pursuit  have 
been  one  bitter  history  of  temptations,  doubts,  despon- 
dencies, struggles,  and  agonising  inconsistencies  of 
volition.  To  natures  cold  originally,  or  extinguished 
by  a  false  asceticism,  many  seeming  acts  of  sacrifice  are 
but  the  subtle  indulgence  of  that  curious  selfishness 
which  is  not  the  more  spiritual  because  it  is  independent 
of  others,  or  the  less  repulsive  because  it  is  most  con- 
tented in  its  isolation  from  every  responsibility.  A 
renunciation  means  the  deliberate  putting  away  of 
something  keenly  loved,  anxiously  desired,  or  actually 
possessed  ;  it  does  not  mean  a  well-weighed  acceptance 
of  the  lesser,  rather  than  the  greater,  trials  of  life. 
When  Orange  had  faced  the  desolate  road  before  him 
it  was  as  though  men  ploughed  into  his  heart  and  left 
it  mangled.  Submission  to  the  severities  of  God 
whatever  they  might  be,  obedience  to  authority,  a  com- 
panionless  existence — these  were  the  conditions,  he 
knew,  of  the  meagre  joy  permitted  to  those  who,  full 
of  intellect,  feeling,  and  kindness,  undertook  the  rigor- 
ous discipline  of  a  solitary  journey.  The  world  seldom 
takes  account  of  the  unhappy  sensitiveness  in  devout 
souls  ;  it  thinks  them  insensible  not  only  because  they 
know  how  to  keep  silent,  but  how  to  sacrifice  their 
secret  woes.     And  what,  after  all,  are  the  gratified  ex» 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  131 

pectations  of  any  career  in  comparison  with  its  hidden 
despairs  ? 

It  may  be  a  fact  that  love,  in  every  imaginative 
mind,  approaches  madness ;  on  the  other  hand,  the 
least  imaginative  are  often  not  merely  attracted  but 
carried  away,  without  any  sort  of  consent,  by  some 
over-mastering  human  magnetism.  To  love  well  is 
a  quality  in  temperament,  just  as  to  preach  well,  or 
to  conduct  a  siege  well,  or  to  tend  the  sick  well,  or, 
in  fact,  to  do  anything  well,  is  a  special  distinction, 
a  ruling  motive  in  the  great  pursuit  of  absolute  felicity 
— a  pursuit  which  is  the  inalienable  right  of  all  human 
creatures,  whether  fixed  mistakenly  in  this  world,  or 
wisely  in  the  next.  No  calling  can  be  obeyed  without 
suffering,  but  as  in  the  old  legend  each  man's  cross 
was  found  exquisitely  fitted  to  his  own  back,  so  a 
vocation  is  found  to  be  just  when,  on  the  whole,  one 
has  fewer  misgivings  that  way  than  in  any  other. 
By  the  exercise  of  self-discipline  one  may  do  much 
that  is  not  repulsive  only  but  suicidal — a  man  may 
so  treat  his  spirit  that  it  becomes  a  sort  of  petrified 
vapour.  When,  however,  he  has  dosed,  reduced, 
tortured,  and  killed  every  vital  instinct  in  his  nature 
till  he  is  an  empty  shape  and  nothing  more,  he  must 
not  flatter  himself  that  he  has  accomplished  a  great 
work.  Life  is  not  for  the  dead,  but  for  the  living, 
and  in  crucifying  our  flesh  we  have  to  be  quite  certain 
that  we  are  playing  no  ghost's  farce,  inflicting  airy  pen- 
alties on  some  handfuls  of  harsh  dust.  Robert  could 
not  feel  that  absorbing  interest  in  himself  which  enables 
so  many  to  cut  themselves  adrift,  painfully,  no  doubt, 
from  every  creature  and  all  impersonal  anxieties.  If 
he  wished  for  fame,  power,  wealth,  it  was  that  he  might 
use  them  to  the  advantage  of  his  friends,  or  for  the 
reparation  in  some  degree,  of  his  father's  sin.     But  all 


132  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

the  joy  and  all  the  melancholy  in  love  give  a  free  rein  to 
egoism,  and  now  that  he  had  gained,  as  he  believed,  the 
desire  of  his  eyes,  the  confused,  tyrannical,  inexplicable 
triumphant  selfishness  dormant  in  him,  as  in  all  of  us, 
began  to  assert  its  terrible  power.  He  forgot  the 
agonies,  storms,  and  fevers,  of  the  past.  Work  had  not 
always  been  able  to  dominate  his  unrest.  There  had 
been  times  when  he  had  been  compelled  to  follow  the 
beckoning  dreams;  when,  in  tightening  his  clasp  about 
the  mockeries  of  his  hope,  he  lost  the  pale  happiness 
which  he  held  already.  Whole  days  had  passed  when 
some  oppressive  thought  had  spread  its  dark  wings,  as 
a  bird  of  prey,  over  his  whole  being,  crushing  him 
gradually  down  to  the  earth.  Now  the  occasion,  the 
solitude,  the  glory  of  the  night  cast  their  spell  over 
his  soul.  For  the  first  time  his  emotion,  so  long 
dumb  and  imprisoned,  found  speech.  Brigit  listened, 
almost  afraid,  to  his  burning  words,  which,  new  and 
strange  to  her,  were,  in  reality,  but  the  echo  of  his 
interior  life,  his  secret  intimate  thoughts,  the  pent-up 
eloquence  of  a  latent  habitual  devotion  long  distrusted 
for  its  very  strength  and  kept  till  that  hour  in  strict 
silence,  lest  in  the  torrent  of  feeling  it  should  say  too 
much.  The  love  to  which  he  had  long  since  sur- 
rendered himself  nov/  had  complete  possession  of  him. 
He  spoke  as  he  had  never  spoken  before — as  he 
never  spoke  again.  The  storm  was  restrained,  sub- 
servient possibly  still,  but  it  was  there,  not  to  be 
forbidden,  denied,  or  gainsayed.  One  has  to  be  very 
strong  in  order  to  support  the  realisation  of  a  long 
deferred,  almost  abandoned,  hope.  Affliction  seems 
to  intensify  a  personality,  adding  to  it  a  distinctness, 
a  power  altogether  commanding  and  irresistible,  but 
even  in  our  purest  happiness  we  lose  something  of 
ourselves,  and  become,  momentarily  at  least,  less  our 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  133 

own  masters,  and  more  pliant  to  the  reproof  of  chance, 
the  sport  of  destiny.  As  Robert  uttered  his  passionate 
confession,  he  was  conscious  that  much  in  him  which 
had  once  seemed  strong  was  conquerable  enough,  and, 
in  the  torture  of  the  indescribable  variety  of  vague, 
menacing  feelings  which  this  suspicion  called  forth, 
he  revolted  against  the  influence  which  held  him, 
which  left  him  neither  liberty,  nor  security ;  which, 
for  a  few  days  of  mad  exultation,  cost  him  a  thousand 
bewildering,  desolating  fears.  Did  he  guess  that 
when  one  most  eagerly  desires  happiness,  one  is  most 
near  to  it  ?  Already,  he  remembered,  with  a  sudden 
pallor,  and  a  sharp  contraction  of  the  lips,  that  death, 
in  time,  would  certainly  claim  both  of  them,  and  his 
soul  was  pierced  at  the  thought,  for  nothing  seemed 
imaginably  so  perfect  as  the  wild  gladness  of  that  poor 
human  hour  then  gliding,  with  pitiless  beats,  toward 
the  past.  Already  the  moon  had  ceased  to  weave  her 
magic;  the  sun  rose  over  the  unrebukable  sea,  and 
the  distant  coast,  obscured  in  a  purple  vapour,  seemed 
but  a  line  of  darkness  against  the  flushed  horizon. 
The  sky  was  grey,  opalescent  in  the  north,  tenderest 
green  and  azure  in  the  east,  while  large,  motionless 
clouds,  as  blue  as  vine-clad,  hills,  shadowed  in  great 
clusters  the  vast  canopy.  But  if  the  dawn  of  day 
wrought  a  progressive  disenchantment  of  the  dreamer, 
Robert  felt  with  the  recurrence  of  the  morning  the 
usual  prayer  rise  to  his  lips  in  a  long  weeping,  inar- 
ticulate cry  to  God — "  Thou  knowest  that  I  love 
Thee  :  Thou  knowest  that  all  my  life  is  but  a  desire 
of  Thee:  Thy  Will,  not  mine."  And  he  heard 
again  the  promise:  ^^Thoii  art  My  servant,  I  have 
chosen  thee,  and  not  cast  thee  away.  Fear  thou  Jiot,  for 
I  am  with  thee :  be  not  dismayed,  for  I  am  thy  God :  I 
will  strengthen   thee  :  yea,  I  will  help    thee."     As  the 


134  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

silent  disquietude  of  night  gave  place  to  the  intense 
tranquillity  of  day,  the  impenetrable  secret  of  life, 
though  still  profound,  unviolated,  and  eluding,  was 
hidden  in  a  shining,  though  not  a  blinding,  mist. 
Was  night  less  night  because  it  paled  gloriously  before 
the  sun  ?  Was  day  less  day  because  it  darkened  into 
evening?  Was  joy  a  false  thing  because  it  passed  ? 
Did  not  sorrow  pass  also?  If  that  sweet  journey  was 
the  first  and  the  last  in  all  his  life,  was  it  not  still  a 
miracle  of  blessing,  nay,  every  blessing,  to  have  known 
even  once  the  power  of  mortal  happiness? 

"  What  are  you  thinking  of  ?  "  asked  Brigit  sud- 
denly, touching  his  arm  with  her  hand. 

"  I  am  thinking  that  there  is  but  one  way  of  resist- 
ing the  woe  of  life — the  infinite  must  oppose  the 
infinite.     Infinite  sorrow  must  be  met  by  infinite  love." 

"  I  suppose  we  have  the  sorrow,  and  the  infinite 
love  is  God's.  We  mustn't  call  even  our  love  infinite, 
Robert." 

He  hesitated  for  a  few  moments  before  he  replied — 

"  I  call  it  no  name." 

"Still,"  she  said,  "the  very  book  in  which  the 
vanity  of  all  things  is  most  insisted  on  has  lived  itself 
nearly  three  thousand  years.  Solomon  has  given  the 
lie  to  his  own  despair  of  being  remembered.  This  is 
why  I  never  feel  sad  now  when  I  think  about  the 
other  fears  which  made  him  discontented.' 

"  Were  they  fears?  I  believe  he  wanted  to  conquer 
the  world,  which  is  strong,  and  his  own  weakness, 
which  was  even  stronger,  as  an  adversary.  We  must 
know  the  measure  of  a  man'  s  desires  before  we  can 
sound  the  depths  of  his  regrets." 

Again  she  put  out  her  hand,  but  this  time  she  took 
his,  following  the  instinct  of  a  child  who  finds  itself 
with  a  trusted  companion  in  a  gloomy  road. 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  135 

"  Nothing  unknown  can  be  wished  for,"  she  said 
gently,  "  and  so,  if  some  few  things  did  not  last,  we 
should  not  have  this  dissatisfaction  of  the  thought  of 
their  perishing.  But  what  is  troubling  you  ?  The 
greatest  cross  is  to  be  without  a  cross.  You,  dearest, 
are  never  at  ease  unless  you  are  at  least  suffering 
tortures  for  some  friend." 

"  I  am  thinking  of  myself  now — myself  only.  I 
can't  forget  that  every  supreme  blessing  must  be 
bought  with  long  sadness,  both  before  and  after,  and 
now  we  are  together,  I  am  wondering  what  I 
should  do — if — if  we  were  separated.  I  must  have 
the  courage  to  face  that  thought.  I  can't  put  it  away 
because  it  has  defied  me,  and  when  a  thought  defies 
me,  I  have  to  meet  it  fairly.  I  do  not  believe  in 
denying  its  force,  or  running  away  in  an  opposite 
direction.  I  hear  its  argument  and  I  try  to  answer 
it." 

She  moved  towards   him    and  said  in  a    low  voice — 

"  I  have  one  prayer,  and  this  is  that  I  may  outlive 
you.  When  you  die,  I  shall  soon  follow  you.  It 
won't  seem  so  very  long.  But  if  I  should  die  first 
I  should  have  to  wait,  because  you  would  never  yield, 
and  your  grief  would  cut  sharply  and  slowly,  a  little 
more  and  a  little  more  each  day.  And  although  I 
might  be  with  you,  you  could  not  see  me.  I  should 
know  all  your  thoughts  and  yet  I  could  say  nothing. 
Almighty  God  is  too  kind  to  let  me  be  so  unhappy 
after  I  am  dead.  This  is  '  the  confidence  wherein  I 
trust.'  This  is  why  I  have  no  fears  now.  We  may 
have  great  trials — how  can  we  expect  to  be  exempt 
from  them  ?  But  we  must  help  each  other  to  bear 
them  and  then  they  will  seem  more  precious  than  joys. 
You  see,  don't  you  ?     You  understand,  don't   you  ?  " 

He  could  not  trust  himself  to  reply.     There  are  cer- 


136  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

tain  utterances,  certain  turns  of  thought,  which  are  so 
restricted  to  one  sex  or  the  other,  so  exclusively  fem- 
inine or  masculine,  as  the  case  may  be,  that  their  entire 
comprehension  by  both  sexes  is  not  possible.  Intuition, 
imagination,  sympathy  may  help  a  great  deal ;  men 
and  women  will  accept  much  from  each  other  which 
they  cannot  to  their  reasoning  satisfaction  account  for, 
and,  if  the  difference  serves  only  to  enhance,  by  its 
mystery,  the  melodiousness  of  the  eternal  human  duet, 
it  also  proves  that,  while  the  singers  may  be  in  harmony, 
they  are  never  in  absolute  unison. 

"  You  know  how  much  I  love  you,"  said  Brigit,  "you 
know  it.  Yet  there  is  an  interior  cloister  of  your  mind 
which  you  keep  wholly  to  yourself.  You  never  ask  me 
there,  I  watch  your  face — it  tells  me  nothing.  You 
have  not  yet  made  me  your  friend.  If  you  were  in 
trouble  you  would  go  to  Pens^e,  because  she  is  older 
and  she  is  used  to  responsibilities.  But  you  hide  things 
from  me  because  you  are  afraid  of  giving  me  pain." 

"  There  is  reason  enough  why  I  should  not  tell  you 
of  every  passing  mood,  nor  draw  you  into  some  invin- 
cible personal  sadness,  and  why  I  should  not  invite  you 
into  the  '  interior  cloister  '  of  my  mind.  Nobody  delib- 
erates to  do  what  he  cannot  help.  There  is  always 
something  questioning  within  me,  and  a  truth  is  not  to 
be  set  aside  by  any  other  truth  whatever.  We  can  only 
fix  our  jaws  and  grip  our  hands  in  useless  wonder  at 
the  contradictions  of  the  soul.  I  would  tell  you  all  my 
heart,"  he  added,  with  a  laugh,  "  but  it  would  take  too 
long !  " 

He  had  been  startled  by  the  acuteness  of  her  percep- 
tion. Too  probably  he  had  carried  his  reserve  to  the 
selfish  pitch,  and  in  over-mastering,  with  silence,  his 
own  moods,  afflicted  her  who  had  become  now,  by  love, 
inseparable  from  his  spiritual  as  well  as  his  outward 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  137 

life.  But  there  is  something  in  beauty — just  as  there 
is  something  in  youth — which  one  fears  to  disturb,  lest 
a  change  should  alter,  or  mar,  in  the  faintest  degree, 
the  sufficient  loveliness,  the  unconscious  charm.  Is  it 
not  for  this  cause  that  many  dependent  natures  find 
classic  perfection  cold,  superb  scenery  unsympathetic, 
and  the  spectacle  of  careless  happiness  embittering  ? 
Others,  of  imaginative  temperament,  prefer  that  their 
idols  should  remain  impassive,  and,  granted  the  inspira- 
tion arising  from  a  fair  appearance,  ask  no  more,  but 
find  their  delight  in  bestowing,  from  the  riches  of  their 
own  gratitude,  adorable  attributes  and  endless  worship. 
Orange,  as  many  other  men  of  idealising  tendencies, 
took  his  human  solace  for  the  discouragements,  fatigues, 
and  ordeals  of  life  in  the  mere  existence  of  the  woman 
he  loved.  He  was  at  the  moment  of  humility  which  is 
the  first  and  last  in  all  really  great  passions.  He  asked 
for  nothing  ;  it  was  all  too  glorious  even  to  have  the 
privilege  of  offering  gifts,  of  feeling  the  readiness  to  die 
ten  deaths  for  her  sake,  of  finding  all  the  recompenses 
of  eternity  in  the  soft  depths  of  her  bright  eyes.  But 
as  he  was  too  much  in  earnest  to  analyse  these  senti- 
ments, he  could  neither  gauge  his  own  reticence  nor 
justify  it  to  Brigit  herself.  Nor  could  she,  with  all  her 
tenderness  and  womanly  instincts,  help  him  in  that 
matter— their  one  possibility  of  estrangement.  She 
lacked  the  knowledge  which  renders  verbal  confidences 
unnecessary ;  she  was  too  loving  and  too  human  to  be 
happy  as  an  inspiration  and  an  inspiration  only ;  she 
also  had  a  great  desire  to  give,  to  aid,  to  prove  her 
devotion,  to  be  the  friend  and  the  fellow-pilgrim. 


138  ROBERT  ORANGE. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

Brilliant  sunlight  lit  up  the  grey  spires  and  threat- 
ening pinnacles  of  St,  Malo,  The  back  of  the  ancient 
fortress  was  hidden  in  white  mist,  but  the  houses  which 
rose  above  the  battlements  facing  the  harbour,  and  the 
shops  and  little  taverns,  near  the  quay,  shone  out  in 
brightness,  their  windows  glittering  under  the  sky 
where  straying  clouds,  driven  by  the  wind,  were  melt- 
ing, as  they  f^ed,  into  the  all-encompassing  blue  ether. 
Some  pigeons  and  wild  gulls  circled  above  the  earth- 
works, darting  down,  at  times,  between  the  massive  oak 
piles  which,  forced  deep  into  the  sand,  were  covered 
with  shining  seaweed.  The  piercing  note  of  the  mili- 
tary bugle,  the  crack  of  the  cabmen's  long  whips,  the 
clatter  of  wooden  shoes,  and  the  Angelus  bells  then 
chiming,  made  up  a  volume  of  sound  which  fell  on 
Robert's  ears  with  all  the  poignant  strangeness  of  an 
old  song  heard  again  after  many  years.  A  hundred 
memories  flocked  into  his  mind  at  the  first  distant  view 
of  that  familiar  scene :  memories  of  his  boyhood,  its 
errors,  its  visions,  its  ambitions;  his  revolt  against 
nature  as  he  understood  it,  and  his  desire  to  keep  his 
heart  and  soul  and  senses  for  the  service  of  God,  and 
the  custody  of  his  own  ideals.  The  very  centre  of  his 
thoughts  was  here ;  here  he  had  found  the  first  begin- 
nings of  his  faith  and  love.  How  often  he  had  walked 
alone  upon  those  ramparts  with  his  New  Testament 
and  the  Mort  d Arthur,  striving,  in  the  fervour  of 
romantic     sentiment,     to    combine    the   standards   of 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  139 

knightly  chivalry  with  the  austere  counsels  of  the 
gospel.  The  divinity  of  Christ  is  the  object  of  eternal 
contemplations,  and  at  every  age — not  of  the  world 
only,  but  of  the  individual — His  Humanity,  under 
our  fresh  knowledge,  demands  a  different  study  and  a 
fuller  understanding.  What  changes,  therefore,  expe- 
rience and  suffering  had  wrought  in  those  early,  un- 
tried speculations !  The  ideals  remained,  but  they 
made  for  swords,  not  peace ;  the  sweetness  of  the 
dream  had  become  an  inflexible  law  of  conscience ; 
the  doctrine  of  a  transcendent  disdain  of  this  world, 
accepted  in  solitude  by  the  obscure  youth  brought  up 
in  a  provincial  town,  had  exacted  its  tax  to  the  utter- 
most farthing  from  the  man  who  struggled  now  with 
the  rich  and  powerful  in  a  great  city  of  the  great 
universe  of  affairs.  .  .  .  He  thought  of  his  dead  god- 
mother, Madame  Bertin,  with  her  still,  pale  face  and 
beautiful  hands — a  cold,  blameless  woman  who  had 
treated  him  kindly  and  misunderstood  him  always. 
She  had  been  his  father's  friend ;  she  had  loved  him,  in 
her  own  stern,  silent  fashion,  for  his  father's  sake.  O, 
if  she  might  only  know  now  how  much  he  treasured 
every  impression  he  had  formed  of  her  strong  char- 
acter !  She  had  given  him  all  the  tenderness  she  had, 
and  all  the  motherly  influence  his  childhood  had 
received.  What  might  his  life  have  been  without 
that  early  association  with  a  noble  if  somewhat  re- 
stricted nature?  But  these  and  similar  thoughts,  while 
they  went  deep,  passed  swiftly  and  did  not  return 
again  till  a  very  different  moment,  when  they  came 
with  agony  and  remained  for  ever. 

He  and  Brigit  were  the  last  to  leave  the  boat. 
They  had  been  so  happy  there  that,  by  an  instinct, 
they  lingered  behind  the  others,  unwilling  to  break 
the  enchantment    of  their  isolation  from  the  land,  and 


I40  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

half-dreading    the     unknown    trials,    or    joys,    which 
awaited,  surely  enough,  their  first  steps  upon  the  soil. 
As  they  crossed  the  plank  they  looked  back,  obeying 
a    common     impulse,  at    the     deserted    deck.     Their 
chairs  had  already  been  moved  away,  and  the   leeward 
corner,   which  had    seemed  so  much  their    own,   was 
filled    up    by  a   small     group     of    sailors     who    were 
quarrelling  about  the  division  of  J^ottr/wires,     The  drive 
to  Miraflores  is   long  and   winding,  past    several  small 
villages,    and  approached   finally   through  a  large  tract 
of  fields   and   orchards.     But  for  the  changing  crimson 
of  the    vines,   it    might    have   been   August    weather. 
Robins,  however,  were  singing,  and  the  golden,  brown, 
and  russet  butterflies  of  autumn  were  floating  languidly 
above  the  wayside  hedges.     The  cawing  of  rooks,  the 
cooing    of   wood-pigeons,    and  the  hum    of  insects  in- 
vaded  the  stillness  of  the  lonely  farms  which,  at  long 
distances,  gave  picturesque  evidence  of  the  human  toil 
expended   on  the  careful,  rather  melancholy  charm  of 
that    northern    landscape.     The    Villa    Miraflores — an 
elaborate  reproduction  of  the  celebrated  Villa  Madama 
near  Rome — stood    on   a  wooded  hill  rising  out  of  a 
river,  facing  the  rocky  sea-coast.     Built   by  the  Arch- 
duke   Charles     of    Alberia    for    his    morganatic    wife, 
Henriette    Duboc,    and    pulled    down    since    for    the 
erection  of  a  convent,  it  is  never  mentioned  in  history, 
and  it  has  been  long  forgotten  by  the  few  inhabitants  of 
the  neighbourhood.     But  as  the  young  couple  entered 
the  lodge  gates  that  day,  and  drove    along  the  stately 
avenue,   the    beautiful   ill-fated    structure    rose    before 
them  as  some  castle  in  the  air   brought    down  to  earth 
by  a  magician's  wand.     Was  this  their  home  ?     They 
dared  not  speak  lest  the  vision   should    fade  too  soon. 
But  Orange    remembered    it  all — this  was  no  dream. 
There  were     the  winding  alleys    leading  to  peeps  of 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  141 

water,  land  and  sky  ;  there  was  the  path  which  he  had 
followed  years  before,  in  search  of  his  destiny.  He 
drew  a  long  breath,  drinking  in  the  intoxicating 
strength  of  the  fresh  sea  air  wafted  through  pine-trees. 
The  atmosphere  was  charged  with  the  very  madness 
of  youth  and  joy.  Who  could  have  hoped  for  such  a 
miracle  as  this  ?  Had  the  whole  course  of  fate  a  like 
to  show  ?  Did  it  not  seem  a  triumph  over  life  and  its 
threatened  deceptions?  His  own  servant  and  Brigit's 
maid — whom  they  had  sent  there  some  days  before — 
were  watching  for  them  at  the  open  door,  and  the 
sight  of  those  well-known  faces  gave  him  a  still 
further  assurance  of  the  scene's  actuality.  They 
crossed  the  hall  without  noticing  a  small  blue  telegram 
on  one  of  the  malachite  tables.  They  walked  together 
through  every  room,  wondering  at  their  treasures, 
looking  out  of  the  windows,  amazed,  bewitched, 
gradually  becoming  used  to  the  fact  of  each  other's 
company  in  such  a  solitude.  What  were  the  woes 
and  cryings  of  the  outer  world  to  them,  lost  in  the 
impenetrable  silence  of  that  retreat  ?  A  strange, 
double  sensation  of  delight  and  forgetfulness  surged  in 
them  both.  All  knowledge  of  disturbing  human 
influences,  of  the  fret,  and  discord,  and  inquietude  of 
common  existence  seemed  trivial  and  even  false. 
They  looked  with  confidence  into  each  other's  eyes,  as 
though  they  were  the  sole  inhabitants  of  some  brilliant, 
inaccessible  star  set  far  above  the  earth  and  its  evil. 
They  were  to  remain  there  a  month — one  month  at 
least — and  after  that  would  trials,  or  labour,  or  sorrow 
deluge  in  bitterness  the  sweet,  eternal  recollection  of 
such  days?  A  table  had  been  set  for  them  in  one  of 
the  small  pavilions  leading  on  to  a  balcony.  The 
scent  of  flowers,  mingling  with  the  sunlight,  came  in 
through    the    open  windows,     bringing    the  garden's 


142  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

freshness  to  the  faded  lilacs  on  the  carpet  and  tapestry. 
Brigit  went  to  the  looking-glass,  took  off  her  hat,  and 
apologised  for  her  "  frightful  appearance."  She  had 
thrown  her  veil  and  gloves  on  the  sofa,  and  the  mere 
sight  of  them  there  gave  a  homeliness  to  that  forsaken 
room  which,  with  its  rococo  decorations,  painted  ceil- 
ings, and  gilded  doors,  had  something  of  the  dead 
gaiety  of  an  empty  theatre.  Brigit  made  the  tea, 
following  the  English  custom  taught  her  by  Pensee. 
Was  the  water  boiling?  Did  he  like  sugar?  How 
absurd  not  to  know  whether  one' s  husband  took 
cream  !  The  two  had  seen  so  little  of  each  other  in 
domestic  surroundings  that  this  little  commonplace 
intimacy  had  an  intoxicating  charm. 

"  Are  you  happy?  "  she  asked  suddenly.  "  Do  you 
know  that  you  are  all  I  love  in  the  world,  and  I  am 
yours  for  ever  and  ever?" 

"  Yes,  I  know." 

"  And  how  much  do  you  love  me?  " 

"  I  shall  never  be  able  to  say  how  much." 

She  took  his  hand,  kissed  it,  pressed  it  to  her  heart, 
then  asked  him,  with  some  confusion,  if  he  liked  grapes 
better  than  pears. 

"  You  are  so  beautiful,"  he  replied. 

"  Not  to-day,"  she  answered  ;  "  to-day  I  am  quite 
dull.  But  you  are  handsome.  I  saw  them  looking  at 
you  on  the  boat.  And  I  was  proud — oh,  so  proud  to 
think  that  you  were  mine." 

When  they  had  finished  their  meal,  she  opened  the 
piano  and  struck  out  some  chords,  which  echoed  with 
a  kind  of  wail  through  the  long  corridors  outside.  The 
instrument  was  out  of  tune,  and  the  strings  seemed 
muffled. 

"  Something  is  inside,"  she  said. 

They  looked  and  discovered  a  few  sheets  of  music 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  143 

which  had  slipped  down  upon  the  wires.  The  sheets 
were  dusty,  stained  with  age,  blurred  by  damp,  but 
one  bore  the  name  "  Henriette  "  written  in  the  corner 
in  a  large,  defiant  hand.  Joining  the  fragments,  they 
found  it  was  an  arrangement  in  manuscript  of  Foe's 
ballad,  "  Annabel  Lee." 

"  li  was  -many  and  many  a  year  ago. 

In  a  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
That  a  maiden  there  lived  whom  you  may  know 

By  the  name  of  Annabel  Lee  ; 
And  this  maiden  she  lived  zvith  no  other  thought 

Than  to  loiT  and  be  loved  by  me. 

But  our  love  it  was  stronger  by  far  than  the  love 

Of  those  that  were  older  than  we — 

Of  many  far  zviser  than  we — 
And  neither  the  angels  in  heaven  above. 

Nor  the  demons  down  under  the  sea. 
Can  ever  dissever  my  soul  from  the  soul 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee.'' 

As  Brigit  read  aloud  these  words  of  haunting  pathos, 
the  very  trees,  rustling  outside  in  the  October  wind, 
the  far-away  sound  of  the  waves  beating  upon  the 
sand,  seemed  to  Robert  an  ominous  accompaniment — 
half  a  warning,  half  a  promise. 

"  I  wonder,"  he  said,  "  I  wonder  why  that  was 
there  ?  " 

He  was  uneasy,  he  could  not  say  why.  He  was 
conscious  of  some  influence  in  the  room.  He  felt,  un- 
accountably, that  they  were  not  alone.  Looking  round 
for  some  confirmation  of  this  strange  instinct  his  eyes 
fell  on  the  small  blue  envelope  which  had  been  placed 
on  the  mantelpiece  by  his  servant.  It  was  addressed 
to  himself.  Fortunately,  whilst  he  was  opening  it, 
Brigit's  attention  was  still  riveted  on  the  old  song 
which  she  was  humming  over  at  the  piano.  She  .spoke 
to  him  three  times  before  he  answered. 


144  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

"  This  telegram,"  he  said,  at  last,  trying  to  control 
his  voice,  "is  from  Reckage.  He  is  on  his  way  now 
to  see  me." 

"  He  is  coming  here  ?     Why  is  he  coming  here  ?  " 

He  put  his  arm  round  her,  in  a  desperate,  long 
embrace,  kissing  her  face,  her  eyes,  her  hair. 

"  What  is  it,  Robert  ?  "  she  said,  clinging  to  him, 
for  she  heard  something  like  a  sob  under  his  breath. 
"  You  have  had  bad  news.     You  must  tell  me." 

"  It  may  not  be  so  serious  .  .  .  perhaps  it  is  badly 
worded  .  .  .  but  Pensee  is  coming  with  him  and  he 
says  quite  plainly  that  there  is  some  legal  difficulty 
about  our  marriage." 

"  Some  legal  difficulty  !  "  she  repeated.  "  What  is 
the  use  of  that  now?  I  can't  leave  you  again.  I'll 
die  first.  I  can't  bear  it.  O,  Robert,  I  am  so  tired  of 
the  law.  There  are  no  laws  for  the  birds,  or  for  the 
flowers,  or  for  the  trees,  or  for  anything  that  is  happy ! 
Why  should  we  be  made  so  miserable — just  to  please 
the  magistrates  and  mayors  !  " 

"  But  it  is  more  than  that — I  am  certain.  Suppose 
it  has  something  to  do  with  Parflete  ?  " 

"With  Wrexham?  How  could  that  be?  He  is 
dead." 

"  He  may  not  be  dead." 

She  sank  down  to  the  floor  on  her  knees. 

"  O  my  God  !     You  know  that  he  is  living." 

"  Reckage  doesn't  say  so.  But  would  he  and  Pens6e 
come  unless  they  felt  we  should  need  them  ?  " 

"  I  need  no  one  except  you.  I  don't  want  to  see 
them.  I  don't  want  to  hear  their  news.  They  are 
killing  you.  You  seem  calm,  but  your  face  !  you  have 
never  looked  like  this  before.  O,  darling,  it  can't  be 
what  you  think  it  is." 

He  lifted  her  from  the  ground  and  took  her  in  his 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  145 

arms  again,  as  though  he  could  defy  the  cruel,  invisible 
fate  which  had  decreed  their  separation. 

"  In  any  case,"  he  said,  "  I  won't  give  you  back — I 
cannot.  It  is  too  much  to  ask.  You  are  mine — you 
were  never  his — never.  God  is  not  unjust,  and  this  is 
unjust.  As  for  other  people  and  outside  opinion,  they 
have  not  mattered  to  me  at  any  time,  and  least  of  all 
can  they  matter  now.     I  won't  give  you  back." 

She  held  him  closer,  already  feeling,  in  spite  of  his 
words,  the  first  agony  of  their  inevitable  farewell. 

"  You  love  me  !  "  she  said,  "  you  must  never  leave 
me.  Kiss  me,  and  promise  me  that  you  will  never 
leave  me." 

Grief  and  horror  had  broken  down  every  barrier  of 
reserve  between  them.  The  pent-up  passion  on  his 
side,  the  intense  unconscious  tenderness  on  hers  seemed 
to  meet  and  blend  in  the  one  consuming  thought  that 
they  belonged  to  each  other — that,  in  the  awful  struggle 
between  the  force  of  circumstances  and  the  force  of 
life — they  might  have  to  part. 

"  Why  should  we  two  matter  in  so  large  a  world  ?  " 
she  cried.  "  Surely  we  need  not  suffer  so  much  just 
for  the  discipline  of  our  own  souls?  I  cannot,  cannot, 
cannot  go  away,  I  can't  live  without  you.  I  can't 
die  without  you.  I  am  tired  of  being  alone.  I  am 
tired  of  trying  to  forget  you.  And  I  have  tried  so 
hard." 

Her  face,  from  which  all  colour  and  joy  and  anima- 
tion had  departed,  seemed  lik&  a  June  rose  dead,  in 
all  its  perfection,  on  the  tree.  One  may  see  many 
such  in  a  garden  after  a  sudden  frost. 

"  You    mustn't    leave   me.     They    all    frighten    me. 

I   have  no  one  but  you,"  she  continued ;  "  God  will 

understand.     He  doesn't  ask  any  one  to  be  alone.     He 

wasn't   even   crucified — alone.     He    didn't    enter   into 
10 


146  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

Paradise — alone.  Ask  me  to  do  anything,  but  don't 
ask  me  to  go  away — to  go  back  to  Wrexham.  You 
are  much  stronger  than  I  am.  If  you  thought  you 
ought  to  cut  out  your  heart  by  little  pieces,  you  would 
do  it.  But  you  must  think  of  me.  They  may  have 
all  my  money — that  is  all  they  care  for.  But  I  must 
have  you." 

Although  she  made  the  appeal,  he  had  resolved,  in 
silence,  long  before,  that,  come  what  might,  he  would 
not  give  her  back.  The  decision  rose  on  the  instant, 
without  hesitation,  doubt,  or  misgiving — a  deliberate 
choice  between  two  courses. 

"  You  cannot  return  to  Parflete,"  he  said  quietly. 
"  Don't  despair.  Your  marriage  with  him  may  be 
annulled.  That  aspect  of  the  question  is  revolting, 
abominable  ;  but  we  are  both  in  such  a  false  position 
now  that  we  owe  it  as  much  to  other  people  as  we  do 
to  ourselves  to  put  everything  in  a  true  light.  You 
are  so  brave,   Brigit " 

"  I  am  tired  of  being  brave." 

Her  slender  arms  tightened  about  his  neck ;  he 
could  feel,  from  the  whole  abandonment  of  her  attitude 
and  the  slight  weight  of  her  childish  form,  how  little 
fitted  she  was  physically  for  the  squalid  ordeal  of  the 
law-courts.  If  she  could  live  at  all  through  horrors 
of  the  kind,  it  would  have  to  be  by  a  miracle.  And 
has  one  the  right  to  hope  for  miracles  where  the 
question  of  happiness  or  unhappiness  in  human  love 
is  the  egoistic  point  at  stake  ?  But,  right  or  no  right, 
there  was  in  them  both  that  supreme  and  fatal  force 
of  affection  which,  if  it  be  unusual,  is  at  least  usual 
enough  to  be  at  the  root  of  most  mortal  tragedies. 

"  I  am  tired  of  being  brave,"  she  repeated.  "  I 
want  to  rest." 

In  the  mirror  opposite  them  he  saw  the  reflection 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  147 

of  the  bright  garden  outside.  How  cahn  and  still  it 
seemed  !  Had  he  wandered  there,  years  before,  with 
a  beating  heart,  in  search  of  his  destiny,  merely  to  find 
it  at  last  after  the  humiliation  of  a  public  scandal? 
Had  his  idyllic,  almost  mystical  romance,  with  all  its 
aspirations,  grace,  and  unspeakable  strength,  been 
given  to  him  just  to  be  called  from  the  house-tops  and 
discussed  in  the  streets?  Was  this  the  end  of  all 
sublime  ideals?  Did  every  delicate,  secret  sentiment 
have  to  endure,  soon  or  late,  the  awful  test  of  degra- 
dation and  mockery  ?  Did  it  have  to  come — this 
terrible  day  of  trial  when  the  Love  which  moves  the 
sun  and  the  other  stars  had  to  pass  through  the  com- 
mon sieve  with  dust,  ashes,  and  much  that  was  in- 
finitely viler?  No,  he  told  himself,  no:  ten  thousand 
times,  no. 

"  Listen,"  he  said,  "  listen.  You  need  not  go  back 
to  him  :  he  knows — every  one  knows  now  that  we 
love  each  other.  We  can't  live  together  because  our 
marriage  is  not  a  marriage.  Your  marriage  with 
Parflete  was  not  a  marriage,  but  it  appears  so  to  the 
world.  Is  it  worth  while  to  undeceive  the  world  ? 
When  I  think  of  the  cost  of  such  a  proof — I  say  it  is 
too  great.  But  if  you  are  courageous — and  you  will 
be  for  my  sake — we  can  defy  every  one — on  one  con- 
dition. We  must  be  sure  of  ourselves.  We  must 
know  that  we  can  depend  on  ourselves.  We  may 
have  to  separate  now  for  some  months — perhaps  a 
year — perhaps  longer;  we  must  school  ourselves  to 
look  upon  each  other  as  friends — friends,  nothing 
more.  It  will  be  very  hard — for  me,  and  it  is  on  my 
account  only  that  we  must  separate  now.  But  you 
will  accept  this,  even  if  you  cannot  understand  it, 
because  my  life  here  depends  on  you.  I  don't  say 
anything  about  my  happiness.     I  leave  that  out  of  the 


148  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

reckoning.  But  if  I  am  to  live — to  get  through  the 
day's  work,  I  must  love  you  and  I  must  see  you. 
Later  on,  we  may  be  able  to  meet  quite  often.  This 
will  be  something  to  which  I  can  look  forward.  All 
this  has  been  in  my  mind  always — ever  since  I  first 
met  you.  I  feel  now  as  though  every  thought,  every 
hour,  every  event  of  the  last  five  months  has  been  a 
preparation  for  this  moment.  On  one  point,  however, 
I  have  never  wavered.  We  can't  desecrate  our  love 
by  some  odious  law-suit.  If  this  life  were  all,  it  would 
be  different.  But  it  isn't  all.  It  seems  as  though  we 
are  not  to  be  everything  to  each  other.  Yet  we  can 
be  more  than  everything — we  can  be  one  existence 
even  if  we  cannot  be  man  and  wife.  We  can  help 
each  other,  we  may  see  each  other — in  time." 

"In  time?"  she  repeated.  The  certainty  that  she 
would  have  to  be  deprived  of  his  presence  for  the 
greater  part,  at  all  events,  of  her  life  came  over  her 
with  intolerable  anguish,  and  with  it  she  felt  a  pre- 
sentiment of  the  future  struggle  to  be  waged  against 
the  profound  instinct  which  drew  them,  with  all  the 
strength  of  a  river's  current,  toward  each  other. 

"  No,  no,"  she  said,  "  if  you  send  me  away,  I  shall 
die.  They  frighten  me  ;  they  tell  me  lies.  My  mother 
is  dead  ;  my  father  is  dead.  I  have  no  one  but  you. 
You  can't  forsake  me.  You  love  me  too  much.  I 
know  you  won't  leave  me." 

Her  innocence  made  the  recklessness  of  her  appeal 
the  more  compelling.  The  beseeching,  intense  affec- 
tion of  her  soul  transfigured  her  face  with  an  almost 
unearthly  sweetness.  White,  trembling,  and  despairing 
she  laid  her  head  upon  his  shoulder,  holding  him  with 
both  arms,  and  swaying  from  the  agony  of  a  grief 
without  hope  and  without  tears. 

"You  must  try  to  understand,"  he  said,  "you  must 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  149 

try.  You  are  so  young — such  a  child,  but  you  do 
know  that  we  can't  live  together,  in  the  same  house, 
if  our  marriage  is  not  valid.  That  would  com- 
promise your  honour.  How  else  can  I  say  what  I 
must  say  ?  " 

"  I  shouldn't  mind.     God  would  understand." 

"  But  the  world  wouldn't  understand.  And  one  has 
to  avoid  the  appearance  of  evil." 

"  They  may  say  anything  they  please.  I  should  be 
very  proud  if  they  misjudged  me  for  your  sake." 

Then  a  thought  suddenly  pierced  her.  What  would 
they  say  about  his  honour  ?  Would  the  world  mis- 
judge him?  Her  weakness  became  strength  under  co- 
ercion of  this  new  possibility  ;  her  cheeks  burned  at 
the  light  thrown  upon  her  first  selfish  impulse. 

"  O,  why  have  I  said  such  things?  "  she  said,  tearing 
herself  away  from  him,  "  and  I  used  to  think  once  that 
women  like  me  were  too  bad  to  live.  I  used  to  won- 
der how  they  could  be  so  evil.  That  was  because  I 
had  never  been  tempted.  And  now  I  see  how  hard  it 
is — how  hard  to  fight.  It  is  so  easy  to  judge  others 
when  you  are  married  to  some  one  you  love.  But  I 
begin  to  understand  now  — I  ought  to  hide  myself  in  a 
cell  and  pray  till  I  die  for  women  who  are  unhappy." 

She  pushed  back  the  soft  golden  hair  which  had  fallen 
a  little  over  her  face,  brightening  its  sorrow.  Every 
feature  quivered  under  the  invisible  cutting  hand  of 
cruel  experience.  In  those  last  sharp  moments  of  in- 
trospection she  had  gained  such  a  knowledge  of  suffer- 
ing; that  a  fire  seemed  to  have  consumed  her  vision  of 
life,  reducing  it  to  a  frightful  desert  of  eternal  woe  and 
unavailing  sacrifice.  Partially  stunned,  and  partially 
blinded  by  misery,  she  felt  the  awful  helplessness  and 
pain  of  what  is  sometimes  called  the  second  birth,  a 
crisis  in  all   human  development  when  the  first  true 


I50  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

realisation  comes  that  the  soul  is  a  stranger,  a  rebel, 
strong  as  eternity,  weak  as  the  flesh,  free  as  the 
illimitable  air. 

"  O,  I  do  understand  !  "  she  said.  "  I  have  been 
pretending  to  myself  that  we  could  do  impossible 
things.  But  I  didn't  want  to  speak  my  own  death- 
warrant.  No,  don't  come  to  me.  Don't  say  one  word 
to  me.  I  know  so  well  now  what  must  be  done.  We 
mustn't  hesitate — we  mustn't  think.  It  is  something 
to  know  where  you  can't  trust  yourself.  I  can't  trust 
my  heart  at  this  moment.  So  I  must  just  depend  on 
the  things  I  have  been  taught — things  which  I  accepted, 
oh,  so  easily,  when  I  applied  them  to  other  people. 
You  must  go  away.  You  must  leave  me  here  with  the 
servants.  Esther  is  good  and  kind.  Pensee  chose  her 
for  me.     You  can  leave  me  with  her." 

She  supported  herself  by  holding,  in  a  desperate 
grasp,  the  heavy  silk  draperies  by  the  window.  The 
image  of  her,  leaning  against  the  faded  scarlet  curtain, 
tall,  fragile,  yet  resolute,  with  heaving  breast,  closed 
eyes  and  pallid  lips,  remained  before  him  night  and 
day  for  months,  and  though,  in  the  process  of  time,  the 
vividness  of  the  picture  waned,  it  lived  always  among 
his  unforgettable  impressions. 

"  You  must  leave  me,"  she  said  again. 

"  Yes,  but  I  will  come  in  the  morning. 

"  You  will  rest,  you  will  try  to  sleep — for  my  sake." 

This  time  she  lifted  her  head,  and,  turning  towards 
him,  met  once  more  the  glance  which  she  felt  must 
have  called  her  to  life  had  she  been  dead. 

"  You  will  come  in  the  morning  ?  " 

"Yes." 

Once  more  she  held  out  her  arms.  He  kissed  her 
mouth,  and  eyes,  and  hair  once  more.  Neither  could 
speak,  and  both  were  tearless.     Then  she  went  with 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  151 

him  to  the  door,  opened  it,  and  seemed  to  lead  the 
way  through  the  long  corridor,  down  some  stone  steps 
to  the  garden.  She  knew  that  he  would  not  leave  the 
spot  while  she  was  in  sight.  So  she  walked  back  to 
the  house  alone  and  mounted  the  steps,  turning  at  each 
one  to  wave  her  hand.  He  saw  her  enter  at  last,  and 
close  the  window.  Then  she  fell  and  was  helpless  till 
she  was  found  by  Esther.  Robert  watched  till  the 
lights  were  lit,  and  for  some  hours  after  they  were 
finally  extinguished.  The  stars  came  out,  and  the 
moon  made  the  languid  night  seem  white  with  beauty. 
Orange  walked  toward  the  town  and  the  small  ceme- 
tery where  Madame  Bertin  was  buried.  Then  he  threw 
himself  by  the  lonely  grave  which  held  the  one  creature 
on  earth  whom  he  seemed  to  have  a  right  to  love 
without  scruple  and  without  restraint.  And  there  he 
remained  till  daybreak,  weeping. 


152  ROBERT  ORANGE. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

Lady  Sara  had  written  to  the  Duke  of  Marshire, 
and  so  fulfilled,  in  part,  her  promise  to  her  father.  But, 
while  she  said  much  that  was  graceful,  coquettish,  and 
characteristic,  the  Duke  felt  unable  to  regard  it  as  an 
acceptance  of  his  offer.  She  was  very  kind  with  that 
kindness  which  has  no  sort  of  encouragement  in  it. 
Among  other  things,  she  begged  for  another  week  on 
the  plea  that  "  seven  days  furnished  a  very  short  specu- 
lation when  the  result  might  possibly  decide  the  whole 
course  of  her  life."  In  much  anxiety,  for  his  Grace  was 
very  much  in  love,  he  composed,  after  three  hours  of 
careful  thought,  a  reply,  and,  having  read  the  least  ten- 
der but  most  sensible  passages  to  his  lawyer,  he  him- 
self left  the  communication,  together  with  a  beautifully 
bound  copy  of  "  Lettres  Choisies,"  by  Madame  de 
Sevign^,  at  St.  James's  Square.  The  parcel  and  the 
missive  arrived  when  the  young  lady  was  reading  and 
rereading  two  other  letters  which  she  had  received  that 
morning  from  the  North  of  France.  One  was  from 
Lord  Reckage ;  the  other  was  from  Pens6e  Fitz  Rewes. 
Their  respective  contents  ran  as  follows : — 

"  My  dear  Sara  (I  love  the  sweeter  name  of  Valerie  : 
may  I  not  use  it  sometimes?), — I  shall  never  be  able  to 
get  through  all  I  have  to  say — no  words  can  reflect  the 
fulness  of  human  nature  in  such  suffering  as  it  has  been 
my  privilege — and  sorrow — to  witness  here.  In  doubt, 
they   tell  us,  we  must  stand  on  the  rule  of  authority. 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  153 

But  for  this  principle  I  should  find  it  hard  to  reconcile 
myself  to  this  deplorable  affair  of  parting  two  people 
who  love  each  other,  evidently,  in  an  almost  lyric  sense. 
You,  I  know,  will  understand  that  this  expression  con- 
tains no  sneer  at  a  frame  of  mind  altogether  surpassing 
my  own  capacity  for  idealism.  Are  there  many,  or  any 
of  us  nowadays,  who  feel  that  there  are  certain  things 
which  we  must  do,  not  do,  or  perish  eternally  ?  I  have 
never  detected  this  narrow,  vindictive,  inherently  su- 
perstitious view  in  Orange.  I  am  forced  to  the  con- 
clusion, therefore,  that  his  truest  happiness  consists  al- 
ways in  his  submission  to  the  Will  (as  he  understands 
it)  of  God  (as  he  understands  Him).  Men  are  like 
horses — unless  they  are  born  with  staying  powers  in 
them,  no  amount  of  training  can  make  them  really  stay. 
Robert  is  a  born  ecclesiastic — I  have  said  so  always.  His 
conduct  in  this  present  crisis  will  be  a  slap  in  the  face 
to  those  who  insist  that  religion  makes  men  timorous. 
Speaking  for  myself,  I  never  entertained  a  moment's 
doubt  of  his  acting  in  precisely  the  manner  in  which 
he  has  done ;  his  worst  time,  however,  is,  alas  !  to  come ; 
he  may  have  to  wait  till  eternity  for  his  recompense. 
That  trial  often  embitters  the  most  constant.  The 
devil  is  never  embarrassed,  and  where  virtue  is  found 
superhuman,  he  takes  every  care  to  keep  it  on  a  sour — 
if  ethereal — diet.  You  will  beg  for  less  comment  and 
more  facts.  Let  me  give  them.  Orange  himself,  pale, 
restrained,  haggard  but  superb,  met  us  at  the  station 
on  our  arrival.  He  had  been  waiting  for  us  at  the 
hotel ;  Mrs.  Parflete  was  at  the  Villa  Miraflores.  The 
two  had  discussed  the  situation  and  parted  on  the 
mere  reading  of  my  telegram.  I  cannot  say  that  they 
might  have  acted  otherwise,  but  only  that  they  acted 
as  they  did.  There  must  have  been,  nevertheless,  a 
considerable   scene.     The  idealist  driven   into  squalid 


154  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

actualities  deserves  a  martyr's  crown.  In  one  single 
misfortune  he  suffers  all  the  calamities  of  the  human 
race,  and  in  one  personal  horror  he  sees  the  death, 
emptiness,  and  corruption  of  all  human  endeavours.  In 
this  exaggeration,  these  mystics  show  their  genius; 
they  suffer  too  much  in  order  that  ordinary  people  may 
suffer  a  little  less.  Poor  Orange  !  He  is  certainly  fine, 
for,  even  if  I  discard  the  mannerisms,  the  eccentricity, 
the  possibly  ;/«/z/rrt/ self-sufficiency,  all  that  is  essential 
in  his  character  remains  and  must  remain  undeniably 
chivalrous.  It  was  an  immense  relief  to  find  that  he 
had  decided,  without  suggestions  on  my  part,  on  his 
course  of  conduct.  I  hate  a  fellow  who  tries  to  be 
more  than  friendly,  and  I  dreaded  making  the  experi- 
ment. I  did  venture  to  point  out  to  him  that  there 
might  be  some  way  of  annulling  the  Parflete  marriage. 
But  idealists  abhor  law-suits.  Parflete,  not  being  an 
idealist,  may  take  some  steps  on  his  own  account.  I 
refrained  from  touching  on  that  possibility,  although  I 
see  much  hope  that  way  for  our  unhappy  lovers.  The 
world  might  cry  out  a  little  at  first,  but  success  justi- 
fies everything.  Meanwhile,  Robert  and  Mrs.  Parflete 
have  formed  a  resolution  not  to  meet  again  for  a  year 
or  more.  After  that,  they  hope  to  be  on  the  unearthly 
terms  of  Laura  and  her  Petrarch.  It  is  magnificent, 
but  is  it  love  ?  I  long  to  hear  your  views  on  the  sub- 
ject. I  have  no  influence  over  you  ;  I  wish  I  had.  I 
am  the  most  sincere  of  all  your  friends.  The  others 
either  care  too  little  for  you,  or  too  much  for  them- 
selves, to  run  the  risk  of  giving  you  offence.  But  I 
would  risk  all,  to  gain  even  a  little — where  you  are 
concerned.  May  I  call  on  my  return  ?  Orange  comes 
back  with  me.  His  own  instinct  tells  him  that  there 
is  a  suggestion  of  the  ridiculous — to  the  mere  on- 
looker— about  this  interrupted  honeymoon.      He  has 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  155 

determined  to  face  it  out  in  London,  and  resume  his 
life  on  the  old  lines.  He  will  finish  his  volume  of 
French  History,  resume  his  post  with  Lord  Wight, 
and  take  his  seat  in  Parliament.  If  he  can  succeed  in 
living  down  this  absurdly  tragic  catastrophe,  he  will 
achieve  a  notable  triumph.  It  gives  me  a  cold  feeling 
at  the  heart  when  I  think  of  the  dreary  heroism  he 
must  display.  Nothing  picturesque,  nothing  striking. 
He  must  simply  baffle  the  scoffers  by  an  inscrutable 
endurance.  Mrs.  Parflete  is  a  beautiful  creature,  but 
quite  a  child,  and  therefore  weedy  as  to  figure.  I  con- 
sider her  far  too  young  for  marriage  in  any  case.  She 
is  only  seventeen — tall,  slight,  with  a  transparent 
skin,  and  something  actually  babyish  about  the  eyes. 
Her  dignity,  in  the  circumstances,  was  wholly  admir- 
able. Perfectly  self-possessed.  Pens^e  will  describe 
the  interviews  far  better  than  I  could,  so  I  will  refer 
you  to  her  for  the  details  of  our  mission.  Women,  I 
have  decided,  in  every  disappointment  always  look  for 
some  future  change  of  circumstances  favourable  to 
their  wishes.  No  matter  how  nominal,  shallow,  and 
delusive  this  faith  may  be,  it  sustains  them  through 
the  worst  trials.  Thus  it  is  that  when  a  woman  sacri- 
fices either  her  repose  or  the  legitimate  compensations 
of  life  to  a  great  idea,  she  suffers  far  less  than  a  man 
in  similar  conditions.  The  devout  female  sex  drive  a 
good  bargain  always :  they  manage  somehow  to  obtain 
all  the  sentiment  they  require  from  both  worlds.  Men 
cannot  be  happy  on  sentiment  alone ;  hence,  therefore, 
the  dreadful  hesitations,  self-doubts,  and  terror  which 
assail  so  frequently  the  interior  peace  of  all  men  drawn, 
like  Orange,  by  certain  qualities  of  temperament,  toward 
the  mortification  of  their  humanity.  Laying  aside  the 
proud  idea  of  the  independence,  vigor,  and  spiritual- 
mindedness  which  this  practice  is  held  to  secure,  there 


156  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

is  one  drawback  which,  with  a  view  to  that  class  who 
are  really  willing  to  endure  many  afflictions  for  the  sake 
of  any  one  definite  advantage,  ought  not  to  be  over- 
looked. The  weak,  under  such  discipline,  become 
sugary  :  the  strong  grow  hard.  Robert  has  backbone  ; 
he  is  a  man  of  ability,  perhaps  even  genius,  but  there 
is  always  a  danger  that,  either  from  the  accumulation 
of  scruples  or  the  want  of  romantic  incentive,  he  may 
throw  up  the  political  game  and  bury  himself  in  a 
monastery  where  his  dreams  may  find  their  sole  expres- 
sion in  prayer.  Another  point  occurs  to  me.  Will  the 
rank  and  file  ever  trust  a  person  so  far  above  their  com- 
prehension? The  very  word  "  mystical"  is  a  word  of 
reproach  in  the  mouth  of  the  world.  People  con- 
tinually ask  questions  about  Robert.  No  questions, 
on  the  other  hand,  are  asked  about  Aumerle.  Aumerle 
lives  like  the  rest  of  us :  he  does  everything  he  ought 
not  to  do — he  surprises  nobody :  he  delivers  his  neigh- 
bours over  to  the  absolute  power  of  accomplished  facts. 
(A  way  of  saying  that  he  doesn't  care  a  rap  about  the 
fellow  who  falls  among  thieves.)  Dear  Valerie  !  What 
a  pleasure  it  is  to  write  to  you  !  lean  utter  my  inmost 
thoughts.  I  am  often  suspected  of  callousness.  This 
letter  will  show  you  how  truly  I  feel  the  sorrows  of  my 
few  real  friends,  I  cannot  bear  to  think  that  Orange 
should  be  beaten,  as  it  were,  by  Parflete.  A  more 
fawning,  wretched  creature  than  Parflete  one  never 
saw.  I  shall  not  be  set  right  in  my  own  idea  of  the 
Divine  Justice  unless  this  battle,  at  any  rate,  is  to  the 
strong.  Write  to  me.  I  don't  want  to  whine,  but  I 
may  tell  you  that  I'm  not  happy. 

"Your  affectionate  friend, 

"Beauclerk  R." 

Sara  sat  on  a  low,  embroidered  stool  by  the  fender, 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  157 

and,  as  she  studied  each  line  of  his  lordship's  despatch 
(for  so  he  regarded  it),  she  would  dip  her  fingers  from 
time  to  time  into  a  blue  satin  sweet-box,  select,  after 
due  consideration,  a  chocolate  or  a  sugaredalmond, 
and  nibble  it  somewhat  fastidiously,  with  an  air  of  mak- 
ing concessions  to  her  human  side.  The  exercise  of 
divining  the  many  hidden  meanings  in  Reckage's 
epistle  was  certainly  purely  intellectual.  Nevertheless, 
as  she  read  the  last  sentences,  she  smiled  with  mali- 
cious triumph,  for  did  they  not  convey  a  declaration  of 
strong  friendship  in  a  letter  designed,  beyond  doubt, 
as  an  argument  in  disfavour  of  all  merely  sentimental 
ties  between  men  and  women,  and  as  a  frank  confession 
of  his  own  inability  to  sustain  any  relation  of  the  kind  ? 
How  often  had  he  maintained  an  opposite  opinion — 
seeming  contemptuous,  indolent,  invulnerable,  uncon- 
scious of  her  beauty,  amused  rather  than  attracted  by 
her  brilliant  spirit.  Every  instinct  of  the  coquette, 
jealous  of  her  own  power  and  wretched  from  the  sterile 
suffering  of  wounded  pride,  resented  bitterly  the  un- 
pardonable ease  which  he  had  appeared  to  enjoy  in  her 
society.  Now,  however,  that  he  appealed  to  her  wo- 
manliness by  a  humble  surrender,  her  better,  more 
generous  nature  asserted  itself.  Some  of  the  old  affec- 
tion she  had  long  felt  for  him  revived.  Where  there 
had  once  been  love,  a  kind  of  desperate  fidelity  still 
lingered,  and,  although  Robert  Orange  was  the  ideal 
passion  of  her  heart,  Reckage  possessed  a  certain 
influence  over  her  which  was  not  the  less  powerful  be- 
cause it  had  its  root  and  constant  nourishment  in  their 
common  memory  of  a  childhood  and  first  youth  spent 
together  in  the  same  county,  with  the  same  friends  and 
the  same  bores.  She  slipped  his  letter,  with  a  sigh, 
into  her  belt,  and  turned  her  attention  for  the  third 
time  to  Pens^e's  tear-stained  pages. 


158  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

"  My  darling  Sara, — I  can  scarcely  write.  Although 
I  know  the  mercy  and  wisdom  hidden  in  these  sad 
events,  my  heart  is  heavy.  The  best  thing  is  to  preach 
resignation  tillyow  have  it ;  and  then,  because  you  have 
it,  you  will  preach  it.  Robert's  love  of  Brigit  makes 
little  outward  show,  but  I  know  that  it  is  terribly  real. 
We  are  never  so  near  to  our  loved  ones  as  when  we 
have  left  them  for  God,  but  nearness  of  that  intangible, 
invisible  kind  amounts  to  agony.  At  least,  I  think  so. 
Robert's  self-restraint  is  killing  me.  When  we  first 
met,  he  shook  from  head  to  foot,  his  very  face  quivered, 
but  he  said  nothing.  I  felt  that  he  would  never  allow 
any  one  to  speak  of  this  trouble  or  offer  him  the  least 
sympathy.  In  the  necessary  discussion  of  the  legal 
aspects  of  the  case,  he  was  very  calm,  and  seemed 
rather  an  adviser  himself  than  the  person  chiefly  con- 
cerned. It  is  not  easy  to  understand  him  ;  yet  I  appre- 
ciate reserve.  If  everybody  could  understand  us,  what 
joy  would  there  be  in  discovering  our  souls  to  those 
whom  we  love  !  Brigit  has  shut  herself  up  in  a  room. 
She  cries  incessantly  (she  is  so  young)  and  is  dreadfully 
changed.  She  wishes  to  go  to  Paris — for  she  has  some 
idea  of  resumingher  musical  studies.  Her  voice  is  one 
of  her  great  gifts,  yet  I  can't  imagine  any  one  singing 
in  such  a  tortured  state  of  mind.  I  don't  like  to  say 
that  actually  I  fear  for  her  reason,  but  she  has,  I  see, 
far  more  heart,  poor  child,  than  I  ever  supposed.  How 
wrong  it  is  to  attempt  any  judgment  or  estimate  of 
another  person's  capacity  for  suffering !  She  is  in  a 
pitiable  condition,  unnaturally  patient  in  a  sense — for 
it  is  patience  on  the  rack.  Our  Lord  dreaded  suffering 
and  even  feared  it.  Of  course,  one  might  easily  say 
that  an  unhappy  love  affair  is  very  common,  that  it  is 
almost  profane  to  compare  such  an  ordinary  trouble 
with  the  serious,    exceptional   trials  of   life.     But   al- 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  159 

though  Lord  Byron  declared  that  "  man's  love  was  of 
man's  life  a  thing  apart,"  his  own  poems  and  his  own 
career  gave  the  lie  absolutely  to  the  statement  (indeed, 
I  am  often  tempted  to  believe  that  women  exhibit,  on 
the  whole,  greater  strength  of  will  in  their  affections 
than  men).  I  must  say,  therefore,  that  the  spectacle 
of  a  bride  and  bridegroom,  devoted  to  each  other,  yet 
separated  on  their  very  wedding  day,  is  quite  as  serious 
and  sorrowful  as  (say)  the  death  of  a  parent,  or  the  loss 
of  a  child,  or  any  other  melancholy  occurrence  of 
everyday  life.  And  what  is  worse,  an  atmosphere  of 
scandal  penetrates  this  story — making  it  most  shocking 
to  all  refined  minds,  and  peculiarly  so  to  temperaments 
of  extraordinary  delicacy.  It  will  take  every  atom  of 
;;zjj/ courage  and  constant  prayers  to  bear  it /(^r  them. 
What  must  it  be,  therefore,  to  themselves  ?  I  tremble 
at  the  appalling  things  in  future  for  us.  As  for  my 
uncle,  I  dare  not  read  his  letter  yet.  He  must  be  so  up- 
set, so  Jiorrified.  I  have  never  before  been  called  on 
for  such  a  proof  of  friendship.  It  is  quite  dreadful  to 
be  mixed  up  in  a  kind  of  cause  ctficbrc.  The  great  jus- 
tice of  God  is  always  mixed  with  great  hardships,  and 
is  often  executed  by  those  worthy  neither  of  confidence 
nor  respect.  I  am  sure  that  we  shall  all  have  to  go 
through  many  humiliations  before  this  matter  is  settled. 
I  know,  darling,  that  yo7i  will  say  I  am  making  a  rather 
narrow-minded  fuss.  But  I  do  hate  publicity,  and  if  it 
doesn't  kill  Robert  outright,  it  will  have  some  shat- 
tering effect  upon  his  character  and  his  health.  Really, 
I  am  not  thinking  so  much  of  myself.  Your  own  reck- 
less bravery,  however,  would  quail  a  little,  I  fancy,  at 
the  idea  of  having  your  most  intimate  feelings  called 
out  from  the  housetops  and  discussed  in  the  streets. 
And  remember,  please,  that  Robert  is  a  dreamer — a 
poet.     Of  course,  in  every  «^/zW  expedition  there  must 


i6o  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

be  some  few  idealistic,  Quixotic  souls  who  have  to 
suffer  vicariously  for  the  rest.  He  is  such  an  one. 
But  that  sort  of  feeling  of  soreness  which  comes  from 
the  sense  of  martyrdom  is  not  quite  the  same  as  a  raw 
wound  on  one's  own  personal  score.  I  do  hope  I  am 
clear.  I  try  to  look  on  the  bright  side,  but  there  are 
days  when  the  unseen  world  and  its  glorious  realities 
become  dubious.  These  are  trials  of  faith,  I  know.  If 
one  could  be  wise,  one  would  keep  silent  at  such  times. 
Now,  dearest  Sara,  good-night. 

*'  Yours  ever  lovingly, 

"  Pensl'e." 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  i6i 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

Lord  Garrow  and  Lady  Sara  left  town  the  next 
day  for  a  short  visit  at  Kemmerstone  Park,  the  seat  of 
Arabella,  Marchioness  of  Churleigh.  Lady  Churleigh 
had  a  favourite  nephew  for  whom  she  was  extremely 
anxious  "  to  do  something."  Vague  by  nature,  she 
had  never  been  able  to  define  her  ambition  in  more 
precise  terms,  but,  as  she  entertained  influential  people 
only,  it  was  considered,  in  many  circles,  that  she  over- 
did her  civilities  toward  the  mammon  of  unrighteous- 
ness. Those  who  were  not  invited  called  her  heart- 
less; those  who  accepted  her  hospitality  found  fault 
with  her  brains.  All  praised  her  cook,  and  no  one  ever 
thought  of  her  nephew.  It  was  known  that  she  could 
not  leave  him  her  money.  Every  pair  of  eyes  read  his 
name — Lord  Douglas  Ilendlesham — on  his  bedroom 
door  at  the  top  of  the  grand  staircase,  and  visitors  soon 
learnt  to  associate  this  advertisement  with  a  pale, 
haughty  young  man  who  appeared  occasionally  at 
meals,  or  sometimes  listened  disdainfull}^  to  the  music 
after  dinner  in  the  saloon.  Distinguished  persons, 
staying  at  Kemmerstone  for  the  first  time,  would  ask  a 
fellow-guest,  "Who  is  the  melancholy  youth  who  looks 
so  ill  ?  "  "  That,"  they  would  be  told,  "  is  Douglas 
Hendlesham,  I  think.'" 

Disraeli  called  him  "  a  personified  hallucination." 
The  party,  on  this  particular  occasion,  consisted  of 
Agnes  Carillon  (who  attracted  unusual  attention  as  the 
fiancee  of   Lord   Reckage),  the  Bishop  of  Hadley  (her 


II 


i62  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

father),  the  Duke  and  Duchess  of  Bevensey,  Charles 
Aumerle,  and  Mr.  Disraeli.  Lord  Garrow  lost  no  time 
in  conveying  his  version  of  the  Orange  scandal  to  the 
ex-Minister's  ears.  It  was  a  damp  afternoon,  and  the 
two  gentlemen  marched  up  and  down  the  smoking- 
room  together,  talking  so  earnestly  that  the  Duke  (to 
his  rage)  dared  not  interrupt  them,  and  drove  out  in- 
stead with  his  Duchess  and  Lady  Churleigh — who  bored 
him  beyond  sleep.  Disraeli  had  been  opposed,  from 
the  first,  to  Robert's  marriage  with  Mrs.  Parflete,  for, 
as  other  diplomatists,  he  preferred  his  own  plans  before 
those  of  Providence,  and  he  had  wished  to  see  his 
young  friend  wisely  united  to  the  unexceptionable 
Viscountess  Fitz  Rewes. 

"  But,"  he  observed,  shrugging  his  shoulders,  "  to 
talk  expediency  is  not  a  safe  way  of  opening  the  game 
with  Orange.  Many  men  have  ability,  few  have  genius, 
but  fewer  still  have  character.  Orange  has  a  rectangular 
will  and  an  indomitable  character.  Character  is  the 
rarest  thing  in  England." 

Lord  Garrow  stiffened  his  back. 

"  I  have  been  educated  in  a  contrary  belief,"  said  he. 
"  Our  national  character  is  our  dearest  possession." 

"  That  is  because  it  is  so  rare.  You  mistake  your 
education  for  your  experience — a  common  error.  By 
character  I  mean  that  remnant  of  a  man's  life  which  is 
probably  stronger  than  death,  and  ought  to  be  stronger 
than  worldly  considerations." 

"  Far  be  it  from  me  to  go  into  such  subtleties,"  re- 
turned his  lordship,  stealing  a  glance  at  Disraeli's 
powerful  face.  "  Your  friend,  at  all  events,  has  done 
for  himself  now.  His  merits  seem  to  be  more  interest- 
ing than  respectable,  and  this  marriage  has  furnished 
conversation  for  the  whole  town — chiefly  because  Beau- 
clerk  Reckage  was  his  best  man.     One  cannot  help 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  163 

feeling  sorry  for  him,  but  it   is  certainly  a  very  bad 
thing.     How  will  he  justify  his  rash  conduct?  " 

"  He  may  think  it  unwise  to  be  detailed  in  self- 
justification." 

"  That  is  all  well  enough,  and  so  far  I  am  with  you. 
In  such  circumstances,  one  doesn't  want  to  tell  a  lie, 
and  yet  one  doesn't  want  to  tell  the  truth." 

"  Well,  there  are  many  duties  and  difificulties  in  life  : 
there  is  but  one  obligation — courage." 

He  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  fire  blazing  in  the  grate,  and 
repeated  the  word  with  great  emphasis — "  Courage  !  " 

"  He  will  need  it.  An  unpleasant  suggestion  has 
been  put  forward  by  the  lawyers." 

"Divorce?"  said  Disraeh. 

"  Yes." 

"  A  Bishop  was  telling  me  the  other  day  that  when 
one  attacks  the  principle  of  divorce  one  forgets  that  it 
was  originally  a  Divine  institution  !  But  I  agree  with 
you — it  is  unpleasant.  You  will  find  that  Orange  won't 
hear  of  such  a  course.  I  see  great  dangers  ahead  for 
him,  but  I  see  no  honourable  way  of  avoiding  them. 
When  a  man,  careless  of  danger,  unconcerned  with 
profit,  takes  up  the  cause  of  God  against  the  world, 
others  may  not  follow,  but  they  must  admire  him. 
Abstract  sentiments  of  virtue  do  not  charm  me. 
Orange  is  a  Roman  Catholic,  however,  and  therefore  a 
practical  idealist.  The  practical  idealists  of  England 
are  the  Dissenters — mostly  the  Methodists,  John 
Wesley  was  considered  crack-brained  by  his  contem- 
poraries at  Oxford  ;  he  was  a  greater  mystic,  in  several 
ways,  than  Newman,  but  he  was  not  such  a  poet." 

"  I  know  nothing  about  Dissenters  and  that  class. 
As  for  the  Catholics — the  few  I  am  acquainted  with 
are  civil  and  sensible." 

"  That  is  true.     Most  of  the  English  Catholics  im- 


i64  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

agine  that  St.  Peter's  and  the  Vatican  can  be  maintained 
on  the  policy  of  a  parish  church  in  Mayfair !  But  one 
moment.  There  is  Aumerle  in  the  hall  with  a  telegram. 
I  wonder  if  he  has  any  fresh  news  about  poor  Derby."  ^ 

With  this  unimpeachable  excuse  he  left  his  noble 
companion,  who,  more  certain  than  ever  that  Disraeli 
could  never  be  in  touch  with  the  upper  classes  of  Eng- 
land, retired  to  his  own  room  and  wrote  down  in  a 
journal  all  he  could  remember  of  their  conversation. 

Lady  Sara,  meanwhile,  had  invited  Agnes  Carillon 
to  walk  through  the  famous  gardens  of  Kemmerstone, 
and,  as  each  girl  was  anxious  to  study  the  other,  they 
started  on  the  expedition  in  that  high  pitch  of  nervous 
excitement  and  generous  animosity  which  one  may 
detect  in  splendid  rivals,  or  even  in  formal  allies.  Sara 
dressed  more  richly  than  was  the  fashion  at  that  time 
among  English  unmarried  ladies.  Her  furs,  velvets, 
laces  and  jewels  were  referred  to  an  Asiatic,  barbaric 
love  of  display.  Agnes,  therefore,  who  had  attired  her- 
self, in  protest,  even  more  plainly  than  usual,  was  a 
little  taken  aback  to  find  her  remarkable  acquaintance 
in  brown  cashmere,  a  cloth  jacket,  and  a  severe  felt  hat 
of  the  Tyrolean  shape,  which,  poised  upon  her  chignon, 
tilted  far  over  her  fine  blue  eyes.  Both  women,  how- 
ever, were  so  young  and  handsome  that  even  the  trying 
fashions  of  the  period  could  not  destroy  their  brilliant 
appearance.  The  chagrin  of  the  one  and  the  ironical 
triumph  of  the  other  soon  gave  way  to  more  generous 
feelings.  Each  took  her  companion's  measure  with  a 
swift,  intelligent,  respectful  glance. 

"  Shall  we  need  umbrellas?  "  said  Agnes. 

"  I  have  nothing  on  that  will  spoil,"  replied  Sara, 
"  but  I  am  a  little  anxious  about  your  shoes.  Are  they 
thick  enough?" 

^  Lord  Derby  was  then  lying  at  the  point  of  death. 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  165 

Miss  Carillon  was  above  many  vanities;  she  left  her 
facial  beauty  to  take  care  of  itself.  But  her  feet  were 
uncommonly  well  moulded,  and  she  was  careful  not  to 
disguise  them  in  the  hideous  porpoise-hide  boots  with 
flat  soles  and  no  instep  which  found  favour  with  her 
generation. 

"  They  look  very  nice,"  continued  Sara,  "  and  I 
really  think  they  are  worth  a  slight  cold.  Take  my 
arm,  for  then  we  can  walk  better.  How  nobly  Lord 
Reckage  has  behaved  in  this  dreadful  affair  of  Robert 
Orange  !  You  won't  think  me  strange  for  introducing 
the  subject  at  once?  It  must  be  on  both  our  minds, 
for  you  are  naturally  thinking  of  Reckage,  and  I  am 
thinking  of  dear  Pensee." 

"  Beauclerk  is  very  fond  of  Mr.  Orange." 

"  He  must  be.  Do  notice  the  autumn  tint  on  those 
beech-trees.  How  I  envy  artists — although  it  is  not 
their  business  to  contend  with  Nature.  The  great  vice 
of  the  present  day  is  bravura — an  attempt  to  do  some- 
thing beyond  the  truth.  That  reminds  me — how 
does  the  portrait  grow  ?  David  Rennes  is  extremely 
clever." 

"  Beauclerk  admires  his  work.  He  considers  him 
finer  than  Millais." 

"  What  does  he  think  of  the  portrait?  " 

"  He  hasn't  seen  it  yet.  My  people  are  much 
pleased  with  the  likeness.     I  find  it  flattering." 

"  Indeed  !  "  said  Sara  thoughtfully.  "  Did  you  give 
him  many  sittings?" 

"  He  knows  my  face  pretty  well.  We  are  acquaint- 
ances of  some  years'  standing.  Papa  has  a  high  opinion 
of  him." 

"  And  you  ?  " 

"  I  am  no  judge.  Women  can  know  so  little  about 
men." 


i66  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

"  I  don't  agree  with  you  there.  They  are  far  more 
conventional  than  we  are.  They  are  trained  in  batches, 
thousands  are  of  one  pattern — especially  in  society. 
But  each  woman  has  an  individual  bringing-up.  She 
IS  influenced  by  a  foreign  governess,  or  her  mother,  or 
her  nurse.  This  must  give  every  girl  peculiar  personal 
views  of  everything.  That  is  why  men  find  us  hard  to 
understand.  We  don't  understand  each  other ;  we 
suspect  each  other:  we  have  no  sense  of  comrade- 
ship." 

"  Perhaps  you  are  right,"  said  Agnes,  rather  sadly. 
"  Yet  our  troubles  all  seem  to  arise  from  the  fact  that 
we  cannot  manage  men.  It  matters  very  little  really 
whether  we  can  manage  women.  With  women,  one 
need  only  be  natural,  straightforward,  and  unselfish. 
You  can't  come  to  grief  that  way.  But  with  men,  it  is 
almost  impossible  to  be  quite  natural.  As  for  being 
straightforward,  don't  they  misconstrue  our  words  con- 
tinually? And  when  one  tries  to  be  unselfish,  they 
accuse  one  of  hardness,  coldness,  and  everything  most 
contrary  to  one's  feelings.  Of  course,"  she  added 
quickly,  "  I  speak  from  observation.  I  have  nothing 
to  complain  of  myself." 

"  Of  course  not.  Neither  have  I.  I  have  grown  up 
with  most  of  my  men  friends.  I  had  no  mother,  and  I 
exhausted  dozens  of  governesses  and  masters.  I  am  sure 
I  was  troublesome,  but  I  had  an  instinctive  horror  of 
becoming  narrow-minded  and  getting  into  a  groove. 
My  English  relations  bored  me.  My  foreign  ones  made 
my  dear  papa  jealous  and  uncomfortable." 

"  Then  you  liked  them  ?  "  said  Agnes  at  once. 

"  Enormously.  You  see,  I  am  always  an  alien  among 
English  people." 

Agnes,  following  an  instinct  of  kindness,  pressed  her 
arm  and  murmured,  "  No,  no." 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  167 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  yes.  And  this  is  why  I  am  devoted 
to  Mr.  Disraeli,  and  so  much  interested  in  Robert 
Oransfe.     We  three  are  citizens  of  the  world." 

"  But  English  people  who  have  lived,  for  any  length 
of  time,  abroad  are  quite  as  sensible  and  tolerant  as 
you  are.  Take  Mr.  Rennes,  of  whom  we  are  just 
speaking." 

"  To  be  sure.  But  artists  and  poets  are  like  stars — 
they  belong  to  no  land.  A  strictly  national  painter  or 
a  strictly  national  poet  is  bound  to  be  parochial — a 
kind  of  village  pump.  And  you  may  write  inscriptions 
all  over  him,  and  build  monuments  above  him,  but  he 
remains  a  pump  by  a  local  spring.  David  Rennes  is  a 
genius." 

"  I  am  glad  you  think  so,"  said  Agnes,  with  flush- 
ing cheeks.  "  I  wonder  whether  he  will  ever  be  an 
Academician  ?  " 

"  Would  you  feel  more  sure  of  his  gifts — in  that 
case? 

There  was  a  slight  note  of  sarcasm  in  the  question. 
"  It  is  stupid  of  me,  I  know,"  said  Agnes  frankly, 
"but    one   can't    help    feeling   rather   shy  until    one's 
opinions  are  of^cially  endorsed." 
"  How  British  !  " 

"  I  suppose  it  is  my  bringing-up.  It  sounds  very 
feeble.  I  often  feel  that  if  I  once  began — really  began 
— to  think  for  myself  I  wouldn't  stick  at  anything." 

"  That  is  British,  too,"  said  Sara,  laughing.  "  You 
are  a  true  fane  Bull !  But  as  you  are  going  to  marry  a 
public  man,  that  is  as  well.  Your  life  will  have  many 
absorbing  interests." 

"  Oh  yes,"  returned  Agnes ;  "  I  hope  to  help  Beau- 
clerk  in  his  constituency,  and  with  the  members  of  his 
Association." 

"  So  far  as  I  can  make  out  they  are  a  weak,  selfish 


i68  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

lot,  but  these  qualities  do  not  affect  the  question  of  his 
duties  toward  them." 

'•  You  express,  better  than  I  could,  my  own  feeling. 
I  fear  they  don't  always  appreciate  his  motives." 

"  Beauclerk,"  said  Sara  slowly,  "  is  impulsive.  He 
is  never  afraid  of  changing  his  mind.  Many  people 
are  called  firm  merely  because  they  haven't  the  moral 
courage  to  own  their  second  thoughts." 

Agnes  drew  a  long  sigh,  slackened  her  pace,  and 
stood  looking  at  the  strange,  autumnal  lights  in  the 
sky,  the  martins  flying  over  the  paddocks  toward  the 
wood,  and  the  crescent  moon  which  already  shone  out 
above  them. 

"  I  suppose  it  does  mean  lack  of  courage,  half  the 
time,"  she  said  at  last ;  "  and  yet  how  disastrous  it 
is  to  wonder  about  the  wisdom  of  any  decision  once 
arrived  at,  of  any  step  once  taken  !  I  daresay  every 
one  shrinks  a  little  at  first  from  the  responsibility  of 
undertaking  another  person's  happiness." 

"Not  every  one,"  replied  Sara;  "the  generous  ones 
only." 

"  You  have  known  Beauclerk  ever  since  he  was  a 
boy,  haven't  you?"  asked  Agnes. 

"  Yes.  He  was  such  a  handsome  lad,  and  he  has 
always  been  the  same." 

"  I  am  devoted  to  him,"  said  Agnes.  "  I  am  proud 
to  think  that  he  has  chosen  me  for  his  wife.  But  one 
thought  is  perpetually  coming  up  in  my  mind :  Shall  I 
be  able  to  make  him  happy?  A  girl,  as  a  rule,  seems 
to  believe  that  she  can  make  a  man  happy  merely  by 
loving  him.  Again  and  again  friends  of  mine  have 
married  in  this  idea.     And  the  hope  seldom  answers." 

She  spoke  very  quietly,  yet  there  was  great  feeling, 
even  great  bitterness  in  her  tone.  She  was  thinking 
of   David    Rennes.     Sara   had    a    curious    magnetism 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  169 

which  attracted  all  those  with  whom  she  came  into 
friendly  relations.  Being  imaginative,  though  never 
inquisitive,  her  quick  sympathies  rendered  the  most 
trivial  interchange  of  ideas  an  emotional  exercise. 
This  power,  which  would  have  made  her  a  successful 
actress,  found  its  usual  outlet  in  her  pianoforte  play- 
ing, which  affected  her  hearers  as  only  extraordinary 
nervous  and  passionate  force  can  affect  people.  She 
had  neither  the  patience  nor  the  sternness  of  mental 
quality  which  is  required  in  a  creative  genius :  the 
little  songs  and  poems  which  she  sometimes  composed 
were  insipid  to  an  astonishing  degree.  Hers  were  the 
executant's  gifts,  and  the  fascination  which  she  exerted 
over  men  and  women  depended  wholly  on  the  natural 
charm  of  a  temperament  made  up  of  fire  and  honey. 
Agnes  had  always  regarded  Lady  Sara  as  an  odd  but 
chivalrous  girl.  The  stories  told  in  society  about  her 
eccentric  tastes,  sayings,  and  doings  were  never  to  her 
heart's  discredit,  no  matter  how  much  they  puzzled, 
or  dismayed,  the  conventional  set  into  which  she  had 
been  born.  It  was  felt  that  she  could  be  trusted,  and, 
although  many  were  afraid  of  her  brains,  no  one  had 
ever  known  her  to  betray  a  confidence,  to  injure 
another  woman's  reputation,  to  show  the  least  spite, 
or  to  insist  upon  an  undue  share  of  men's  attention. 
The  sex  may,  and  do,  pardon  the  first  three  sins,  but 
the  last  has  yet  to  find  its  atoning  virtue.  All  declared 
that  Sara,  with  many  shortcomings,  was  neither  a 
poacher  nor  a  grabber.  Girls  consulted  her  in  their 
love  troubles,  and  not  a  few  owed  their  marriages 
to  her  wise  arbitration.  She  had  the  gypsy's  spell. 
Thus  it  happened,  therefore,  that  Agnes,  who  was 
habitually  reserved,  found  herself  thinking  aloud  in 
the  presence  of  this  mysterious  but  not  hostile  per- 
sonality. 


I70  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

*'  When  does  Beauclerk  return  from  the  North  of 
France  ?  "  asked  Sara. 

"  He  is  coming  back  with  Mr.  Orange  next  Wednes- 
day. I  had  a  letter  this  morning."  Her  voice  grew 
husky,  and  with  evident  agitation  she  halted  once 
more. 

"You  know  Beauclerk  so  well,"  she  said  at  last, 
"  that  I  want  to  ask  you  something,  and  you  must 
answer  me  truly — without  the  least  dread  of  giving 
offence — because  a  great  deal  may  depend  on  what  you 
tell  me.  Do  you  think  he  seems  altogether  settled  in 
his  mind  ?  " 

Sara  guessed,  from  the  nature  of  the  question,  that 
the  truth  in  this  case  would  be  a  relief — not  a  blow. 

"  He  doesn't  seem  quite  himself — if  you  understand 
me,"  she  said,  without  hesitation. 

Agnes  caught  her  arm  a  little  more  closely  and 
walked  with  a  lighter  step. 

"  I  don't  think  we  love  each  other  sufificiently  for 
marriage,"  she  exclaimed ;  "  his  last  letter  was  so 
affectionate  and  so  full  of  kindness  that  it  brought 
tears  to  my  eyes.  I  saw  the  effort  under  it  all.  We 
are  making  a  tragic  mistake.  We  drifted  into  it.  We 
were  such  good  friends,  and  we  felt,  I  daresay,  that  it 
was  our  duty  to  love  each  other.  His  family  were 
pleased  and  so  were  mine.  We  seem  to  have  pleased 
everybody  except  ourselves.  Not  that  I  ever  expected 
the  joy  and  stuff,  and  inward  feelings  which  one  reads 
of.  I  am  too  sensible  for  that.  But  I  wanted  to  feel 
established — whereas  we  are  both,  in  reality,  rather 
upset.     I  am  sure  of  this." 

"  Perhaps  when  you  see  each  other " 

"  Our  letters  are  far  more  satisfactory  than  our 
meetings.     I  know  he  is  fond  of  me." 

"  You  couldn't  doubt  that.     It  is  worship." 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  171 

*'  I  can  say,  at  any  rate,  that  I  am  so  sure  of  his 
affection  that  it  gives  me  no  pain — not  the  least — to 
miss  the — the  other  quahty." 

"  My  dear,  you  are  not  in  love  with  him,  or  you 
couldn't  be  so  resigned." 

"  I  suppose  you  are  right.  I  have  never  told  him 
that  I  loved  him.  He  has  never  asked  me.  Perhaps 
he  took  it  for  granted.  As  for  me,  I  thought  that  the 
respect  and  esteem  I  felt  would  do." 

Sara  shook  her  head. 

"  Not  for  us.  We  are  different,  I  know,  but  we 
have  hearts.  We  can  suffer,  we  can  endure,  we  can 
be  resigned,  we  can  be  everything  except  uncertain,  or 
lukewarm.     Isn't  that  true?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Agnes,  and  she  laughed  a  little.  "  It 
isn't  my  way,"  she  went  on,  "  to  talk  like  this  about 
myself.  Yet  I  can't  help  seeing  that  all  this  keeping 
silence,  and  disguising  facts  from  one's  own  reason,  is 
actually  weak.  I  don't  want  to  be  weak.  It  isn't 
English.  I  don't  want  to  be  supine.  That  isn't 
English  either.  I  want  to  be  just  and  square  all  round 
— in  my  dealings  with  others  and  in  my  dealings  with 
my  own  conscience.  Papa  has  always  taught  us  a 
great  deal  about  individual  liberty,  and  freedom  of  will. 
I  am  beginning  to  wonder  what  liberty  means." 

"  That's  the  first  step  toward  a  great  change." 

The  young  girl  set  her  lips,  and  looked  steadfastly 
before  her,  as  though  she  would  pierce  the  gathering 
twilight  with  her  bright  and  candid  eyes. 

"  I  daresay  you  are  right.  Anyhow,  our  talk  has 
been  a  help.  When  I  may  seem  to  lack  courage,  it  is 
because  I  lack  conviction.  Once  convinced,  I  can  de- 
pend upon  myself." 

"  When  did  these  ideas  come  to  you  ?  "  asked  Sara. 

"  They  have  been  coming  for  some  time.     I  have 


172  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

been  abroad  a  good  deal,  and  I  have  been  meeting 
people  who  make  opinions.  I  never  gave  in  when  I 
was  with  them,  but  I  must  have  been  influenced." 

The  slight  emphasis  on  the  words  people  and  them 
was  too  studied  to  escape  Sara's  trained  hearing.  She 
knew  the  force  of  a  woman's  rhetorical  plural. 

"  I  believe  you  have  your  convictions  now,  at  this 
moment,"  she  said  quietly. 

"  No — not  in  the  final  shape." 

"  But  you  can  predict  the  final  shape  ?  " 

"  One  more  day  and  then  I  will  decide  irrevocably." 

"  Why  do  you  hesitate  ?  " 

"  For  this  reason — I  must  grieve  papa  and  disappoint 
my  mother." 

"  Still,  both  these  things  have  to  be  done.  Some  of 
the  best  men  have  been  obliged  to  displease  their 
parents  in  choosing  a  vocation.  Women,  in  their 
marriages,  are  often  driven  to  the  same  sad  straits." 

"  I  know,  but  the  prospect  is  most  painful.  I  feel  I 
could  bear  my  own  disappointment  far  better  than  I 
could  bear  theirs.     Surely  you  understand  ?  " 

"  Too  v/ell." 

They  had  now  reached  the  house,  and  Agnes's 
habitual  manner  at  once  re-asserted  itself.  Her  voice, 
which  had  many  rich  notes,  fell  into  the  one  unchanging 
tone  she  used  in  ordinary  conversation.  Her  counte- 
nance seemed  as  placid  as  a  pink  geranium  under  glass. 

"  Thank  you  for  a  very  pleasant  walk,"  she  said  to 
Sara.     *'  I  sha'n't  forget  it." 

"  Nor  I.  And,  please,  after  this,  always  call  me 
Sara.  And  may  I  call  you  Agnes?  We  have  just 
time  now  to  write  a  few  letters  before  dinner." 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  173 


CHAPTER  XV. 

Robert,  accompanied  by  Lord  Reckage,  arrived  in 
London  the  following  Wednesday.  Pensee  and  Brigit 
went  from  St.  Malo  to  Paris,  where  the  unhappy  girl 
hoped  to  enter  the  Conservatoire.  All  had  been 
arranged  by  Robert  himself,  and  he  had  shown  a  calm- 
ness during  the  ordeal  which  might  have  deceived  his 
two  friends  had  they  been  even  a  little  insincere  them- 
selves or  a  shade  less  fond.  His  Journal  at  that  period 
contains  two  entries,  however,  which  show  that  neither 
Lady  Fitz  Rewes  nor  Reckage  w^ere  wrong  in  fearing 
he  had  received  a  mortal  blow  which  no  earthly  influ- 
ence could  make  endurable. 

''Oct.,  1869. — I  am  once  more  at  Almouth  House. 
Beauclerk's  consideration  for  me  is  almost  more  than 
I  can  bear.  The  rest  is  not  born.  If  it  were  not  cow- 
ardly, I  would  go  away  alone,  and  brood  at  my  leisure 
and  yield  to  the  appalling  yet  all  but  irresistible  wretch- 
edness which  calls  me,  which  I  actually  crave.  An 
effort  not  to  depress  or  discourage  others  may  be  right 
and  my  duty.  I  cannot  be  sure  of  this.  Sometimes  I 
feel  as  though  it  would  be  wiser  to  meet  the  dark 
hours  and  make  acquaintance  with  them.  .  .  .  And 
what  is  to  become  of  her  ?  The  longing  to  see  her — 
even  in  the  distance.  .  .  . 

"  To-night  I  talked  with  Reckage  about  his  Bond  of 
Association.  Most  of  the  members  feel  toward  him 
that  insipid  kind  of  hatred  which  passes  for  friendship 


174  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

in  public  life.  If  he  were  naturally  observant,  he  would 
see  this ;  if  he  were  given  at  all  to  self-doubt,  he  would 
feel  it.  But  his  way  is  to  regard  most  men  as  ill- 
mannered  and  well-meaning. 

"  Tuesday. — Another  day.  I  begin  to  see  that  I  have 
been  called  to  make  every  sacrifice — marriage,  ambi- 
tion, happiness,  all  must  be  abandoned :  abandoned 
while  I  live,  not  after  I  have  made  myself,  by  years  of 
self-discipline,  indifferent  to  such  consideration.  .  .  . 
But  for  its  piety,  the  Imitation  is,  I  think,  the  most 
pessimistic  book  in  the  world.  The  Exercises  of  St. 
Ignatius  (perhaps  because  he  was  a  saint)  produce 
quite  an  opposite  effect  upon  me ;  they  exhort  us  to 
hope,  action,  courage.  They  make  one  a  citizen  of 
both  worlds.  Merely  to  read  him  is  a  campaign  in  the 
open  air  against  a  worthy  foe.  I  defy  any  man  to  go 
through  the  Exercises  with  his  whole  heart,  and  even 
whine  again.  I  have  resolved  to  write  willingly  no 
more,  to  speak  willingly  no  more,  on  the  subject  of 
my  marriage.  That  page  is  turned  for  ever:  there 
shall  be  no  glancing  back.  Moods  inevitably  must 
come  ;  spasms  of  despair  are  as  little  tractable  as  spasms 
of  physical  pain.  But  I  can  at  least  keep  silent  about 
their  true  cause.  The  first  step  toward  the  cure  of 
egoism  is  to  lock  away  one's  Journal.  I  shall  add  no 
more  to  this  till  I  have  mastered  my  present  state. 
And  I  wonder  what  that  mastery  will  mean  ?  Are 
some  victories  better  lost?" 

The  Journal  ends  abruptly  at  this  point,  and  no 
more  was  added  that  year.  His  letter  to  Lord  Wight 
has  been  preserved  because  his  lordship  sent  it  to 
Pensee  in  some  anger,  begging  her  to  explain  such 
callousness.  Pensee,  being  a  woman,  brought  a  gentler 
understanding  to  the  inquiry. 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  175 

"  Don't  you  see,"  she  said,  "  that  his  heart  is 
broken  ?  " 

"  I  see,"  returned  his  lordship  drily,  "  he  is  a  born 
R,  C.  ecclesiastic.  Religious  instinct  is  the  ruling 
passion  of  Orange.  That  poor  young  woman — with 
whom  he  is  madly  in  love — was  merely  an  accident  of 
his  career.  She  has  affected  his  character — yes.  I  sup- 
pose Cardinal  Manning's  wife  had  her  influence  in  her 
day.  But  Robert  will  work  better  than  ever  after  this. 
Whereas  look  at  mc,  my  dear.  When  I  lost  Sybil,  I 
was  completely  done  for.  I  tried  to  set  up  for  myself, 
but  I  couldn't.  I  hope  I  am  a  Christian  ;  God  forbid 
that  I  should  quarrel  with  His  will.  Yet  I  cannot 
think  I  am  a  better  man  for  my  poor  darling's  death. 
Don't  talk  to  me.     Don't  say  anything." 

The  letter  in  question  ran  as  follows : — 

"Almouth  House. 
"  My  dear  Lord  Wight, — 

"  The  messages  which  you  have  sent  by  Lady  Fitz 
Rewes  have  helped  me  where  I  most  needed  assistance. 
When  I  tell  you  this,  it  would  be  more  possible  for 
you  to  imagine  my  gratitude  than  for  me  to  express  it 
— at  least,  in  words,  and  for  that  matter  I  can't  see 
how  any  act  of  mine  could  prove  even  a  fraction  of  it. 
Shall  I  resume  my  work  on  the  28th  ?  I  have  had  to 
learn  that  one  does  not  always  choose  one's  vocation. 
It  is  sometimes  chosen  for  us.  May  I  beg  you,  as  one 
more  favour,  never  to  talk  to  me  about  the  events  of 
the  last  fortnight  ?  In  one  sense  I  am  able — too  able 
— to  discuss  them.  This  is  why  I  must  not  indulge 
myself.  In  times  to  come  I  may  find  it,  perhaps,  a 
certain  effort  to  speak  of  it  all.  Then  I  will  tell  you 
gladly  anything  your  kindness  may  seek  to  know. 
But  just  now  it  is  my  duty  to  keep  silent.     One  can- 


176  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

not  fight  the  wild  beasts,  and  describe  them  fairly,  at 
the  same  hour.     Either  they  seem   more   formidable 
than  they  are,  or  they  are  even  more  terrible  than  they 
seem.     But  the  order  has  gone  forth — *  Face  them.* 
"  Your  affectionate  and  grateful, 

"  Robert  de  H.  Orange." 

Robert  himself,  after  he  had  written  this  final  letter, 
decided  to  reply  in  person  to  a  note  which  he  had 
received  that  morning  from  Lady  Sara.  He  walked  to 
St.  James's  Square  wondering,  without  much  interest, 
whether  Fate  would  have  her  absent  or  at  home.  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  she  had  felt  a  presentiment  of  his  call, 
and  he  found  her,  beautifully  dressed  in  violet  tints, 
copying  some  Mass  music  in  the  drawing-room. 

"  I  hoped  you  would  come,"  she  said,  when  the  ser- 
vant had  closed  the  door.  "  Nothing  else  could  have 
shown  me  that  you  didn't  mind  my  writing.  I  had  to 
write.  I  wrote  badly,  but  indeed  I  understood.  It 
takes  an  eternity  to  sound  the  infinite.  We  won't  talk 
of  you :  we  can  talk  about  other  people.  Ask  me 
what  I  have  been  doing." 

All  this  time  she  held  his  hand,  but  in  such  sisterly, 
kind  fashion,  that  he  felt  more  at  ease  with  her  than 
it  was  ever  possible  to  be  with  Pens6e,  who  was  timid, 
and  therefore  disturbing. 

"  Have  you  accepted  Marshire  ? "  he  asked  at 
once. 

"  No,"  she  said,  blushing  ;  "  I  do  not  love  him  suf- 
ficiently to  marry  him." 

"How  is  this?" 

"  You  know  that  I  always  fly  from  important 
mediocrities.  You  think  that  sounds  heartless.  He 
has  been  so  kind  to  me.  But  I  love  as  I  must — not  as 
I  ought.     My  dear  friend,  all  the  trouble  in  life  is  due 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  177 

to  forced  affection.  Look  at  Beauclerk !  Think  of 
Agnes  Carillon  !  What  fiery  fierceness  of  sorrow  in 
both  their  hearts  !  Papa  I  and  were  at  Lady  Churleigh's 
last  Sunday.  Agnes  was  there,  looking,  believe  me, 
lovely.  No  portrait  does  her  justice.  One  finds  mar- 
vellous beauty,  now  and  again,  in  the  middle  classes. 
She  is  an  exquisite  bourgcoise.  She  is  not  clever 
enough  to  feel  bored  ;  she  is  too  well  brought  up  to  be 
fascinating;  too  handsome  to  insist  on  homage.  Plain 
women  are  exacting  and  capricious — they  make  them- 
selves zvorth  while.  II  faiit  se  faire  valoir  !  That  is 
why  a  man  will  often  adore  an  ugly  woman  for  ever, 
whereas  an  Agnes — an  Agnes " 

She  paused,  gave  him  a  glance,  and  laughed. 

"Does  Beauclerk  adore  Agnes?"  said  she. 

"  Can  one  man  judge  another  in  these  questions?" 

"If  neither  are  hypocrites — yes." 

"  As  for  conscious  hypocrisy,  a  priest  of  great  expe- 
rience once  told  me  that  in  twenty  years  he  had  met 
but  one  deliberate  hypocrite.  You  must  be  less 
cynical.  Men,  however,  don't  watch  each  other 
closely  as  a  rule  in  sentimental  matters." 

"  If  that  is  a  reproof,  I  thank  you  for  it,"  she  an- 
swered. "  It  may  do  me  good.  This  wayward  soul 
of  mine  is  all  wrong.  Be  patient  with  me.  I  can't 
help  thinking  that  most  men  living  are,  at  the  bottom, 
wholly  selfish  and  truly  miserable." 

"  Very  few  people  are  truly  miserable.  If  this  were 
not  the  case,  the  world  and  all  creatures  must  have 
perished  long  ago." 

"  Well,  I  can  tell  you  of  three  wretches  at  any 
rate." 

"  Three — against  the  world  and  all  the  planets  and 
heaven  ?"  said  he. 

"  Yes.     They  are  Beauclerk,  and  Agnes  and  I.     We 

13 


178  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

want  time  and  space  annihilated  in  order  that  we 
may  be  happy.  We  must  be  humorous  studies  to 
those  looking  on,  but  we  are,  nevertheless,  utterly 
desperate.  This  is  true.  Scold  me  now — if  you  can. 
Tell  me  what  is  to  become  of  us — if  you  dare." 

She  stood  up.  She  clenched  her  small  hands,  set 
her  lips,  and  grew  so  pale  that  the  pearls  around  her 
neck  seemed  dark. 

"  Tell  me  what  is  to  become  of  us — if  you  dare," 
she  repeated,  **  because  mischief  is  certain.  You 
belong  to  those  who  endure  and  fight  good  fights,  and 
keep  the  faith.  Beauclerk  and  I  are  of  another  order 
altogether.  We  suffer  without  endurance,  we  fight 
without  winning,  and  the  little  faith  we  have  is  so  little 
that  it  is  taken  away  from  us.  As  for  Agnes — wait ! 
She  is  encased,  at  present,  in  conventionalities.  But 
she  is  gradually  getting  rid  of  these  wrappings  and 
trappings.     She  will  surprise  you  all  yet." 

"  I  can  believe  that.  She  is  a  woman,  and  a  good 
one.  All  the  surprising,  inconceivable  things  are  done 
by  good  women." 

"  And  most  of  the  wicked  things,  too." 

"  Possibly." 

"  Let  me  tell  you  then  that,  if  it  is  possible  in  the 
circumstances,  Agnes  ought  to  give  Beauclerk  his 
release.  It  would  be  no  more  than  his  right  to  demand 
this." 

"  A  right  is  something  independent  of  circumstances, 
and  paramount  to  them.  But  when  you  once  talk  of 
your  rights  and  your  wrongs  in  love,  all  love  is  gone, 
or  going.  I  hope  it  hasn't  come  to  that — with 
Reckage  !  " 

"  You  have  great  knowledge  of  him  and  know  how 
to  press  it  home  when  you  choose.  Can't  you  see, 
plainly  enough,  that  he  is  on  the  road  to  disaster?" 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  179 

"  No.  One  may  easily  be  a  long  way  from  happiness 
and  still  be  nowhere  near  disaster,"  he  said,  checking  a 
deep  sigh.  "  Of  course,  if  he  feels  that  he  cannot  in 
honour  remain  in  his  present  situation,  he  must  act  at 
once.  Men  who  are  desirous  to  satisfy  all  their  friends 
soon  become  irresolute  on  every  occasion.  That  is  all 
I  shall  say  upon  the  subject,  and  this,  perhaps,  maybe 
saying  more  than  I  ought." 

"Another  reproof!  So  be  it.  But  I  am  thinking  of 
his  contentment,  and  you  are  thinking  of  his  duty. 
What  is  duty?  It  generally  means  that  which  your 
acquaintances — for  no  reason  and  without  warrant — 
expect  of  you.     I  take  a  larger  view." 

"  People  of  Beauclerk's  stamp  are  so  constituted  that 
they  can  rarely  find  contentment  by  defying  a  general 
opinion." 

"  But  Agnes  is  not  a  pretty,  crying,  fluttering  crea- 
ture who  would  excite  compassion.  Who,  for  instance, 
could  jilt  Pensee  ?  I  don't  wish  Beauclerk  to  jilt  any- 
body, however.     I  want  Agnes  to  take  the  step." 

"  Why  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Because  he  will  break  his  heart  and  die — if  she 
doesn't.     There  !  " 

"  Then  it  will  be  your  fault." 

"  Mr.  Orange  !  " 

"  You  know  it,  and  I  mean  it." 

She  smiled  at  him  and  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  Do  you  think  I  would  ever  take  the  common-place 
course  ? "  she  said  proudly.  "  I  did  hope  that  you 
could  appreciate  motives  for  which  the  world  at  large 
is  slow  enough  to  give  credit.  Beauclerk  is  weak,  at- 
tractive, and  in  perplexity ;  I  search  my  heart  again 
and  again,  and  I  find  nothing  but  friendship  there — 
for  him.  I  am  careful  of  every  word  I  speak,  and  every 
look,   and   every  thought.     My    interest    is   unselfish. 


i8o  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

But,"  she  added,  "  what  can  any  of  us  do,  after  all, 
toward  raising  either  dead  bodies  or  dead  souls  ?  " 

"  Dead  souls?  " 

"  Yes.  Beauclerk  might  have  been  something  once  ; 
he  is  still  very  clever  ;  he  will  soon  be  a  man  for  oc- 
casional addresses.     I  believe  in  him,  you  see." 

"  I  know  that." 

She  was  smiling,  yet  almost  in  tears,  and  her  voice 
trembled.  He  wished  to  speak,  if  only  to  break  the 
sudden,  oppressive  silence  which  followed  her  last 
words  ;  but  neither  of  them  could  find  a  thought  to 
offer.  They  sat  facing  each  other,  lost  in  following  out 
unutterable  conjectures,  fancies,  and  doubts,  each  pain- 
fully aware  of  a  certain  mystery,  each  filled  with  a  sure 
premonition  of  troubles  to  come. 

"  I  could  almost  pray,"  she  exclaimed  at  last,  "  that 
you  didn't  trust  him.  Because — in  spite  of  himself — 
he  must  disappoint  every  one.  He  is  not  a  deliberate 
traitor — but  a  born  one." 

As  Sara  spoke  the  double  doors  were  thrown  open. 

Lord  Reckage  was  announced. 

"  Beauclerk  !  "  she  exclaimed. 

His  lordship,  self-absorbed,  did  not  perceive  her 
confusion — which  she  was  too  young  to  dissemble  per- 
fectly. 

"  The  man  told  me  that  you  were  here,"  he  said, 
addressing  Orange  and  seating  himself  by  Sara.  "  I 
call  this  luck — finding  you  both  together.  I  have  just 
been  with  my  Committee.  They  always  expect  the 
worst  of  me  now,  and  they  are  always  cheerful  in  the 
expectation." 

Sara  began  to  disentangle  some  silk  fringe  on  her 
skirt  ;  she  did  not  look  up,  and  she  offered  no  com- 
ment. 

"  What  is  the  matter  now  ?  "  asked  Robert. 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  i8i 

"They  want  to  get  rid  of  me.  You  see,  one  might 
practise  very  considerably  on  the  credulity  of  the  mem- 
bers if  one  chose,  and  these  fellows  on  the  Executive 
wish  me  to  take  a  cautious  line  with  regard  to  Dr. 
Temple's  nomination.^  It  is  all  very  well  for  Pusey  to 
write,  *  Do  you  prefer  your  party  to  Almighty  God  and 
to  the  souls  of  men  ? '  But,  as  Aumerle  says,  Pusey 
is  not  in  the  House  of  Commons.  An  attack  on  Temple 
will  be  highly  unpopular.  We  have  sounded  opinion 
in  various  quarters,  and  we  receive  the  unanimous  reply 
— *  Have  nothing  to  do  with  it.'  There  is  a  feeling  in 
the  clubs,  too,  that  vapid,  colourless  orthodoxy  is  not 
wanted  in  England.  Healthy  disagreement  within 
limits  suits  us.  The  question  is,  then  :  Ought  I  to  go 
against  this  strong  tide  and  get  myself  disliked  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Sara  at  once. 

"  You  think  so?" 

"  Beyond  a  doubt." 

"  Of  course,"  said  his  lordship,  readily  enough,  "  a 
combination  in  defence  of  any  article  of  the  faith  is  a 
noble  thing.  My  original  idea  was  to  get  up  a  com- 
bination of  High  and  Low  and  Broad  Churchmen,  and 
make  a  stand  on  purely  legal  grounds.  For  instance, 
how  can  the  bishops,  zvithont  previous  explanation, 
consecrate  one  lying  under  the  censure  of  their  House? 
That  is  all.  There  is  nothing  offensive  in  that.  We 
merely  ask  for  an  explanation  :  we  offer  no  judgment : 
we  state  no  prejudice.  If  Dr.  Temple  intends  to  with- 
draw his  paper  from  Essays  and  Reviews — well  and 
good.  Personally,  he  bears  the  highest  character.  He 
would  be,  in  many  ways,  an  acquisition  to  the  Church. 
But  does  he  himself  believe  in  the  Church  as  a  Divine 
institution — mark  you,  a  Divine  institution  ?  Neither 
the  Outs  nor  the  Ins,  I  should  think,  could  object  to 

»  Mr.  Gladstone's  nomination  of  Dr.  Temple  to  the  See  of  Exeter. 


i82  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

this  question.  Aumerle  and  the  Executive,  however, 
are  dead  against  any  proceedings  at  all.  They  think 
we  ought  to  give  our  Association  a  more  secular  char- 
acter. They  say  we  are  hampered  by  too  vehement  a 
religious  tone.  They  say  that  broad  Christian  prin- 
ciples are  more  workable.  Besides,  the  word  Christian 
always  attracts  the  Nonconformists  in  spite  of  them- 
selves. They  are  bound  to  support  you  if  you  stick  to 
the  line  of  a  believer  in  Christ — irrespective  of  par- 
ticular doctrines.  And  so  on  and  so  on.  I  prefer  some- 
thing more  hard  and  fast  myself.  Yet  they  may  be 
right.     One  must  go  with  the  times." 

He  shifted  his  chair  several  times  during  this  speech, 
looking  first  at  Orange  and  then  at  Sara  for  encourage- 
ment. 

"  Your  Executives  are  poor  creatures,"  said  Sara,  with 
a  curling  lip  ;  "  your  weak  theologians  have  become 
flabby  politicians — their  one  rule  of  action  is  to  avoid 
everything  which  demands  even  the  possibilit}'  of  self- 
sacrifice  or  adverse  criticism," 

"That  is  most  unfair,"  said  Reckage  hotly.  "  One 
must  see  where  one  is  going." 

"  The  world,"  said  Sara,  "  in  the  long  run,  despises 
those  who  pander  to  it." 

"  Yes,  but  it  is  in  the  long  run,  and  no  mistake  ! 
What  a  fellow  you  are,  Robert  !  Why  don't  you  sug- 
gest something?  Are  you  trying  to  find  the  civilest 
thing  you  can  say  of  the  performance?  " 

"  It  is  the  system  which  you  must  attack  in  the  pres- 
ent difficulty.  The  system  is  at  fault — not  Dr.  Temple," 
said  Robert. 

"  No  other  system  can  be  now  looked  to  as  a  substi- 
tute," answered  Reckage,  impatiently.  "  The  thing 
cannot  be  done  away  now,  the  danger  is  too  near." 

"  Exactly.     The  English  can  never  deal  with  systems 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  183 

or  ideas.  They  can  only  attack  individuals — you  de- 
pend in  a  crisis  on  the  passions  of  men,  never  on  their 
reason.  Whereas  if  you  overhauled  their  reason,  worked 
it,  and  trained  it,  the  passions,  at  the  critical  moment, 
would  be  roused  with  better  effect,  and  would  be  prop- 
erly organised.  Organised  passions  are  what  you  need 
for  a  strong  public  movement.  Whirling  emotions  in 
contrary  currents  are  utterly  futile." 

"  I  daresay.  I  hoped  we  might  make  such  efforts  as 
to  fix  a  lasting  impression  on  both  Houses  that  the 
State  appointment  of  bishops,  coupled  with  the  farce 
of  a  co7igd  d'^lire,  is  rank  blasphemy.  This  outrage  on 
good  taste  ought  to  occupy  the  attention  of  every  man. 
It  is  quite  enough  to  fill  the  minds  of  all." 

"  It  won't,"  said  Robert.  "  You  must  remember  that 
whatever  strikes  the  mind  of  an  average  man,  as  a  result 
of  his  own  observation  and  discovery,  makes  always  the 
strongest  impression  upon  him.  Now  the  average  man 
is  not  engaged  in  studying  Church  government.  He 
will  not  thank  you  for  calling  his  attention  to  it." 

"  Then  what  do  you  want  Beauclerk  to  do  ?  "  asked 
Sara. 

"  He  must  fight  just  the  same,  of  course.  I  merely 
wish  him  to  see  what  he  has  to  encounter.  By  drag- 
ging the  clergy  into  the  movement  you  make  it  savour 
— to  the  popular  intelligence — of  professional  jealousy. 
By  making  Dr.  Temple  your  example,  you  render  those 
who  respect  his  character  powerless  to  express  their 
opinion.  Given  the  system,  he  is  unquestionably  the 
fittest  man  to  profit  by  it." 

Reckage  took  many  turns  round  the  room. 

'*  The  personal  character  of  Dean  Ethbin,"  he  said, 
at  last,  "  is  not  exactly  square.  He  acts  a  trimming 
part.  But  now  and  again  he  sums  up  a  situation.  He 
says  that  the  English  people  do  not  choose  to  keep  up 


184  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

an  Established  Church  which  shall  be  independent  of 
its  Sovereign  and  Legislature.  I  have  seen  most  of  the 
bishops  and  archdeacons.  They  are  against  Temple  ; 
they  say  very  little  about  the  system.  Even  men  with 
nothing  to  gain  by  it,"  he  added,  ingenuously,  "  don't 
appear  to  criticise  it." 

"  For  all  that,  the  Church  must  deliver  her  conscience 
at  whatever  risk.  She  ought  to  assert  her  will — even 
against  her  interest — in  order  to  show  England  that  she 
is  her  own  mistress  !  " 

"You  mean  that  ironically!  What  does  for  Rome, 
however,  doesn't  do  for  us.  The  Church  of  England 
is  It — not  She — to  most  people.  As  for  Rome,  noth- 
ing in  her  belongs  to  humanity,  except  the  Vatican 
discipline — the  life  of  which,  I  confess,  is  a  permanent 
miracle ! " 

"  My  best  friends,"  entreated  Sara  gaily,  "  do  not — 
do  not  fio-ht.  Be  nice  to  each  other  and  listen  to  me. 
The  English  never  read  history.  Why  not  get  up  a 
kind  of  Historical  Commission  and  examine  the  validity 
of  the  Anglican  Orders?  There  you  can  work  at  the 
roots  of  things.  After  that,  introduce  a  Bill  for  the 
admission  of  clergymen  to  Parliament.  You  have 
spiritual  peers,  why  not  spiritual  Commons?  " 

"  One  at  a  time,"  said  Reckage ;  "  what  ideas  you 
have !  Say  them  again.  I  believe  they  are  not  half 
bad.     But  do  go  more  slowly." 

Sara,  with  a  becoming  instinct  of  meekness,  took  her 
favourite  seat  on  the  fender,  and  at  the  feet  of  the  two 
men,  looking  up  humbly,  began  to  explain  herself  with 
that  lightness  of  phrase  only  possible  to  those  who  have 
a  profound  knowledge  of  their  subject.  Her  submis- 
sive attitude,  her  soft,  musical  voice,  and  her  docile 
expression  made  both  men  insensible  to  the  actual 
commands  insinuated  into  the  emotional  wit  and  acute 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  185 

arguments  of  her  little  speech.  Reckage  was  fascinated. 
He  sat  there  drinking  in  her  beauty  and  wisdom — the 
one  stimulated  his  senses,  the  other  pierced  his  intelli- 
gence, making  him  feel  that,  with  such  a  companion 
ever  by  his  side,  he  might  achieve  heroism  with  a  good 
conscience.  As  matters  were,  he  was  often  dissatisfied, 
sleepless,  and  oppressed — particularly  under  praise.  He 
was  not  often  set  right,  as  he  would  have  said  it,  in  his 
own  opinion — even  when  the  world  and  his  Executive 
Committee  were  disposed  to  cry  out — "  Well  done." 

"  I  didn't  run  within  pounds  of  my  form,"  was  the 
cry  of  self-reproach  he  invariably  heard  above  the  ap- 
plause of  his  colleagues  or  the  commendation  of  the 
Press.  Sara,  he  believed,  would  give  him  the  courage 
of  his  own  better  nature.  These  thoughts  were  passing 
rosily  in  his  heart,  when  Lord  Garrow,  accompanied  by 
Agnes  Carillon,  entered  the  room. 

"  My  love,"  said  Lord  Garrow  to  Sara,  "  I  met  Miss 
Carillon  on  the  steps  of  the  London  Library,  and  I 
have  brought  her  in  to  tea.  But  why  do  you  sit  in  the 
firelight  ?  Why  haven't  they  lit  the  gas  ?  And  who  is 
here  ?  " 

A  sudden  flame  from  the  grate  illuminated  the  faces 
of  Orange  and  Lord  Reckage.  The  two  ladies  greeted 
each  other.  All  spoke,  and  then  all  were  silent.  It 
was  an  awkward  meeting  for  every  one  present.  Lord 
Garrow  rang  the  bell,  and  the  small  company  sat  there 
without  a  word,  watching  the  footman  light  the  gas  in 
the  glass  chandelier. 

'*  What  do  you  suppose  we  have  been  talking  about  ?  " 
asked  Sara  desperately. 

"  I  can't  imagine,  my  dear,"  said  her  father.  "  I  am 
far  too  cross.     I  hate  these  odd  ways." 

**  We  were  discussing  the  validity  of  Anglican  Or- 
ders." 


i86  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

"  God  bless  my  soul ! "  exclaimed  his  lordship ; 
"  what  next  ?  " 

Agnes,  who  was  looking  pale  and  worried,  frowned 
with  displeasure. 

"  But  how  disloyal  !  "  she  said  severely.  "  As  if  one 
could  even  discuss  such  a  question  !  " 

"  Mr.  Orange  is  a  Roman  Catholic,"  answered  Sara, 
"  so  he  is  not  disloyal.  I  am  nothing — so  I  have  no 
obligations.  Lord  Reckage  is  in  public  life  and  has  to 
meet  the  problems  of  the  age.  Don't  be  narrow,  dear 
Agnes." 

"  I  think  it  too  bad,  all  the  same,"  replied  Miss 
Carillon — "  even  in  fun.     I  am  sure  I  am  right." 

Lord  Reckage  tried  to  conceal  his  annoyance,  but 
his  voice  shook  a  little  as  he  said — 

"  We  were  not  joking.  New  men  will  come  in,  not 
improbably  with  new  ideas.  I  must  be  ready  for  them. 
An  ignorance  of  men's  moods  is  fatal." 

He  hoped  she  would  take  this  warning  to  herself. 
She  was,  however,  too  stirred  to  consider  anything 
except  the  cause  of  their  common  agitation. 

"  Dr.  Benson  was  saying  to  papa  only  last  week,"  she 
answered,  "  that  there  is  no  apparent  recognition  of  the 
Divine  presence  in  our  daily  affairs.  It  is  most 
shocking." 

"  The  clergy  are  doing  their  level  best,  by  bigotry, 
to  make  Benson's  assertion  true.  At  any  rate,  I  am 
not  going  about,  as  the  French  put  it,  with  my  paws 
in  the  air.  I  feel  strongly  tempted  to  throw  up  my 
present  line,  and  give  the  whole  Association  to  the  best 
qualified  hypocrite  of  my  acquaintance." 

"  The  sure  way  out  of  that  temptation  is  not  to  think 
yourself  exposed  to  it,"  said  Robert  quickly. 

"  I  hate  sophistries,"  said  Agnes,  tightening  her  lips. 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  187 

'•  And  I  hope,  Beauclerk,   that  you  will  never  remain 
in  any  painful  situation  against  your  will." 

These  words  seemed  to  bear  an  ominous  significance. 
Agnes  herself,  having  uttered  them,  received  one  of 
those  sudden  inward  illuminations  which,  in  some  na- 
tures, amount  to  second-sight.  But  she  was  unimagin- 
ative and  not  especially  observant,  sensitive,  or  skilled 
in  discerning  the  signs  of  any  psychological  disturb- 
ance. She  felt  only,  on  this  occasion,  that  a  crisis 
had  been  reached,  that  Reckage  was  vexed  with  him- 
self, with  her,  with  life  generally.  She  had  a  letter  in 
her  pocket  from  David  Rennes — a  beautiful,  touching 
letter,  full  of  longing  for  a  faith,  a  hope — love,  he  said, 
he  possessed,  alas  !     What  a  difference  in  the  two  men  ! 

*'  You  don't  understand,"  said  Sara.  "  You  are  right 
because  you  haven't  heard  enough,  Mr.  Orange  is 
going  to  give  a  lecture  on  Church  History,  and  Lord 
Reckage  has  promised  to  be  chairman.  They  will  hold 
the  meeting  at  St.  James's  Hall,  and  I  am  sure  it  will  be 
most  interesting.  More  I  cannot  tell  you,  because 
they  have  gone  no  further  in  their  plans." 

But  misfortune  had  entered  the  room,  and  that  way- 
farer— once  admitted — asserts  her  ill-will  without  let 
or  hindrance.  Agnes,  barely  touching  her  tea,  rose  to 
say  good-bye.  Lord  Garrow  and  Reckage  escorted  her 
to  the  hall.  They  helped  her  into  a  carriage  (lent  her 
for  that  afternoon  by  the  Duchess  of  Pevensey),  and 
she  drove  away,  trembling,  tearful,  afraid,  not  remind- 
ing her  _;f^«^/ that  they  were  to  meet  at  dinner  in  the 
evening.  He  walked  homeward,  but  not  until  he 
had  decided,  after  much  hesitation,  that  he  could 
scarcely  go  back  again  to  Lady  Sara.  His  thoughts 
were  fixed  now  to  one  refrain — "  I  must  have  my  free- 
dom." Freedom,  at  that  moment,  had  a  mocking, 
lovely  face,  the  darkest    blue    eyes,  and  quantities  of 


i88  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

long,  black  hair.  She  wore  a  violet  dress,  her  hands 
were  white,  and  she  talked  like  a  Blue  Book  set  to 
music  by  Beethoven.  Yes,  he  must  have  his  freedom 
and  live. 

Sara  and  Orange,  meanwhile,  left  alone  in  the  draw- 
ing-room, were  exchanging  interrogatory  glances. 

"What  do  you  think  now?"  she  asked  ;  "  do  you 
pretend  to  believe  that  Agnes  and  Beauclerk  can  make 
each  other  even  moderately  contented  ?  " 

"  Then  you  are  to  blame." 

A  flush  swept  over  her  face.  She  looked  bitter  re- 
proaches, but  she  made  no  answer. 

"  And  why  are  you  so  interested  in  Anglican  Orders  ?  " 
he  continued.  "  How  is  it  that  you  know  your  subject 
so  well  ?     For  you  do  know  it  well." 

"  Catholic  questions  always  appeal  to  me,"  she  said 
coldly.  "  I  have  no  religion,  but  I  come  from  a  race 
of  politicians  and  soldiers — on  my  mother's  side.  I 
must  have  an  intellectual  pied  a  terre,  and  I  require  a 
good  cause.  Party  politics  are  too  parochial  for  me. 
So  I  am  on  the  side  of  the  Vatican." 

"  La  reine  s' amuse,'*  said  Robert.     "  Is  that  all  ?  " 

"  Yes,  that's  all." 

She  turned  over  the  music  on  her  writing-table  and 
hummed  some  bars  from  the  Kyrie  of  Mozart's 
Twelfth  Mass. 

"  If  you  were  a  Jesuit,"  said  she,  "  you  would  try  to 
convert  me." 

'  "  St.  Ignatius  never  wasted  time  over  insincere 
women." 

"  I  am  not  insincere,"  she  said  frankly.  "  I  own  I 
may  seem  so.  But  you  are  not  kind,  and  some  day 
you  may  be  sorry  for  this." 

Her  eyes  filled  with  tears — which  he  noticed  and 
attributed  to  fatigue. 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  189 

"  I  wonder  how  men  ever  accomplish  anything !  " 
she  exclaimed. 

"Why?" 

"  They  have  no  insight.  They  mistake  self-control 
for  coldness,  and  despair  for  flippancy.  Isn't  that  the 
case? 

"One  can  be  light. and  true  as  well  as  light  and 
false.  Now  you  are  witty,  beautiful,  brilliant — but 
you  don't  always  ring  true." 

She  seemed  confused  for  a  minute,  and  hung  her 
head. 

"  All  the  same,"  she  said,  suddenly,  "  I  am  always 
sincere  with  you.  It  is  not  in  my  power  to  be  so 
with  every  one.     '  Fate  overrules  my  will.'  " 

"  That  is  the  trouble  with  most  of  us." 

Then  he  wished  her  good-bye,  promising,  however, 
to  call  again  with  regard  to  the  Meeting.  Lord  Garrow 
met  him  on  the  staircase. 

"  I  congratulate  you  on  your  election  to  Brookes's," 
stammered  his  lordship,  "  but  for  Heaven's  sake  be 
cautious  at  play.  Really,  the  younger  men  there  are 
trying  to  revive  the  worst  traditions  in  gaming.  The 
loo  was  rather  high  at  Chetwynd's  last  night,"  he 
added,  with  a  studied  air  of  guilt.  "  I  won  ^500  from 
my  host.  I  call  that  the  limit — even  on  old  Cabinet 
Steinberg !  " 

He  smiled,  he  waved  his  hand,  feeling  that  he  had 
displayed  great  taste  in  a  situation  of  enormous  diffi- 
culty. Something  unusual,  too,  in  the  young  man's 
face  touched  his  heart.  It  seemed  to  him  that  here 
was  one  who  had  felt  the  world's  buffets. 

"  I  have  never  been  just  in  my  estimate  of  Mr. 
Orange,"  said  he  to  Sara,  as  he  re-entered  the  drawing- 
room.  "  I  quite  took  to  him  to-day.  He  has  a  fine 
countenance,  and  I  am  sure  he  is  very  much  cut  up 


190 


ROBERT  ORANGE. 


by  this  painful  affair.  It's  a  pity  he's  a  Catholic,  for 
he  would  make  such  an  excellent  canon  for  St.  Paul's. 
He  would  look  the  part  so  well." 

" '  Happiness,  that  nymph  with  unreturning  feet,' 
has  passed  him  by,"  said  Sara,  watching  herself  in  one 
of  the  mirrors. 

"  She  has  passed  a  good  many,"  sighed  his  lordship. 
"  But  play  me  that  lovely  air  which  Titiens  sings  in 
//  Flauto  Magicoy 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  191 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

Agnes  was  too  ill  to  appear  at  the  Duchess  of 
Pevensey's  dinner  that  evening.  Lord  Reckage's 
melancholy,  absent  air  during  the  entertainment,  and 
his  early  withdrawal  from  the  distinguished  party,  were 
referred,  with  sympathy,  to  the  very  proper  distress  he 
felt  at  Miss  Carillon's  tiresome  indisposition.  The 
time  passed  well  enough  for  him — far  better,  in  fact, 
than  he  had  expected,  for  he  was  relieved  from  the 
strain  of  *'  dancing  attendance  "  on  his  betrothed — a 
thing  which  he,  even  more  than  most  men,  found 
silly.  In  the  chivalrous  days  of  tournaments,  trouba- 
dours and  crusades  this  romantic  exercise  of  seeming 
enslaved  was,  he  held,  justifiable,  even  interesting. 
But  in  modern  life  it  had  an  appearance  of  over- 
emphasis. 

Poor  Agnes,  however,  could  neither  eat,  nor  sleep; 
nor  rest.  Her  temples  throbbed,  her  eyes  ached ; 
every  nerve  was  a  barbed  wire ;  her  soul  was  manacled 
by  promises  ;  she  would  not  use  her  reason  ;  the  fever 
in  her  veins  was  not  to  be  quelled,  and  the  one  agitat- 
ing relief  to  her  physical  suffering  was  a  constant 
perusal  of  David  Rennes's  letter.  It  was  the  first  pas- 
sionate love-letter  she  had  ever  received.  Just  as  a 
river  may  stream  peacefully  through  pastoral  lands 
till  it  joins  the  sea  and  becomes  one  with  that  vast 
element  of  unrest,  so  the  little  flame  of  her  girl's 
nature  was  absorbed  at  last  into  the  great  fire  under- 
lying all  humanity.     Was  she  in  love  ?  she  asked  her- 


192  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

self.  When  she  was  with  Rennes  she  became  silent, 
incapable  of  conversation,  of  thought.  All  she  asked 
was  to  be  near  him,  to  watch  him,  to  hear  him. 

Was  this  love  ?  Was  it  love  to  press  his  letter  to 
her  heart,  to  read  it  again  and  again,  to  keep  it  under 
her  pillow  at  night  ?  Was  it  love  to  think  of  him  every 
moment  of  the  day,  to  compare  all  others  to  him  and 
find  them  wanting,  to  see  his  face  always  before  her 
eyes?  Was  it  love  to  know  that  if  he  called  her, as  he 
called  her  now,  she  would  leave  home,  father,  mother, 
friends,  all  things,  all  people,  and  follow  him  to  the 
world's  end,  to  the  beginning  of  hell,  or — further?  At 
one-and-twenty  such  questions  need  no  answer.  They 
belong  to  the  innocent  rhetoric  of  youth  which  will  cry 
out  to  June,  "  Are  you  fair?"  and  to  the  autumnal 
moon  in  mist,  "  Must  there  be  rain?"  Neither  June 
nor  the  moon  make  reply,  but  youth  has  no  doubts. 
The  girl,  weeping  tears  of  joy  over  Rennes's  perilous 
words,  had  but  one  clear  regret  in  her  mind — she  could 
not  see  him  for  some  hours.  His  declaration  dispelled 
the  terrible  bitterness,  scepticism,  and  indifference  to 
all  sentiment  which  had  gradually  permeated,  during 
their  acquaintance,  her  whole  heart.  Repulsed  affec- 
tion may  turn  to  hatred  in  haughty,  impatient  souls. 
But  in  Agnes  it  produced  a  moral  languor — a  mental 
indolence — the  feeling  that  no  one  was  in  earnest,  and 
nothing  ought  to  matter.  The  more  this  feeling  deep- 
ened, the  more  attentively  did  she  observe  the  mere 
outward  etiquette  of  all  that  passes  for  seriousness,  at- 
tending scrupulously  to  the  minor  obligations  of  exist- 
ence and  exhausting  her  courage  in  those  petty  mat- 
ters which  die  with  the  day  and  yield  no  apparent  fruit. 
How  different  now  seemed  the  colourless,  harsh  fabric 
which  she  had  mistaken  for  duty  and  wrapped — as  a 
shroud — about  her  secret  hopes !     She  had  held  every 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  193 

aspiration  implying  happiness  as  a  "  proverb  of  re- 
proach " ;  she  had  endeavoured  to  believe  that  all 
poetry — except  hymns — was  false  prophecy  leading 
one  to  hard  entanglements  and  grievous  falls. 

And  what  had  been  the  impoverishment  of  her  soul 
under  this  grim  discipline?     How  could  she  tell   the 
many  thoughts  which  had  travelled  unquestioned  over 
the  highway  of  her  heart  during  that  process  of  disil- 
lusion?    But  all  was  changed  now,  and  all  that  had 
been  difficult,  painful  or  obscure  in  the  world  seemed 
perfect  with  the  inexhaustible  glory  of  young  passion. 
Rennes   begged  her  to   see  him  once  more  before  he 
left  England  for  some  years.     Would  she  meet  him  in 
Kensington    Gardens?     She   had    often   walked   there 
under  the  old  trees,  with  himself  and  Mrs.  Rennes,  and 
the  place  had  become  very  dear,  very  familiar  to  her 
from  these  associations.     At  any  other  time,  however, 
the  idea  of  a  clandestine  meeting  with  David  would 
have  been  intolerable.    To  go  now  was  misery,  yet  she 
dared  not  stay  away.     The  sunny  morning  mixed  with 
her  mood,  which  was  one  of  determination  to  risk  all 
in  order  to  win  all.     Driven  by  a  sense  of  her  capabili- 
ties for  endurance,  she  faced,  with  a  kind  of  exultation, 
the  possible  disaster  or   remorse   which   might   follow 
her  action.     Was  there  not  a  possible  joy  also?     For 
ten  days  now  she  had  been  ill  in  body  as  well  as  mind  ; 
.she  had  suffered  a  hard  struggle.     She  knew  now  that 
she  could   not,  could   not,  could  not,  no  matter  what 
happened,  become  the  wife  of  Lord  Reckage.     The  re- 
sult of  great  self-delusion  for  so   long   a  period  was  a 
condition  of  mind  in  which  she  was  practically  unable 
to  distinguish  between  candour  and  disingenuousness. 
Any   appearance    of   deceit — which    she    regarded    as 
wrong  in  itself — always  excited  her  scorn,  but  despera- 
tion now  urged  a  step  which  might  lead,  she  thought, 
13 


194  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

to  much  good  or  much  evil.  That  it  could  lead  to 
more  evil  than  a  loveless  marriage  was  not,  however,  to 
be  feared.  She  started  from  the  house  with  feverish 
cheeks,  a  beating  pulse,  and  a  new  strange  conscious- 
ness of  power — power  over  herself,  her  fate,  the 
world. 

Rennes  was  waiting  for  her  under  the  long  avenue  of 
trees  by  the  Lancaster  Gate  walk.  She  had  a  tall,  stately 
figure  of  that  type  immortalised  by  Du  Maurier — in- 
deed, she  herself  may  be  recognised  in  some  of  his  fa- 
mous society  sketches  about  the  year  1870.  The  clear, 
decisive  features,  the  tender  discerning  expression,  the 
poise  of  the  head,  were  irresistibly  attractive  to  all 
artists  with  a  strong  sense  of  grace — even  artificial 
grace — as  opposed  to  rude  vigor  or  homeliness.  She 
possessed  naturally  that  almost  unreal  elegance  which 
many  painters — Frederick  Walker,  for  instance — have 
been  accused  of  inventing. 

"  This  is  very  wrong  of  me,"  she  said,  blushing  as 
Rennes  advanced,  hat  in  hand,  to  meet  her,  "  very 
wrong.     I  never  do  these  things." 

"  I  said  in  my  letter — right  or  wrong,  it  matters  not 
■ — what  I  thought.  This  is  a  thing  which  runs  up  into 
eternity,  Agnes.  It  had  to  be.  We  needn't  try  to 
justify  it." 

"  I  cannot — I  dare  not  regard  it  as  you  do." 

"  But  you  have  come  !     Let  me  look  at  you  !  " 

"  Does  it  require  much  looking  to  see  that  I  am 
really  unhappy  ?  " 

"  I  see  that  you  are  beautiful,  that  you  are  here — 
with  me.  Ah,  don't  be  unhappy  !  When  we  take  into 
account  our  scanty  time  together  " — he  grew  pale  at 
the  thought — "  and  the  danger  we  have  just  missed  of 

losing  each  other,  perhaps  for  ever "     She  caught 

his  hand  for  a  second  and  he  kept  it. 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  195 

"  What  is  to  be  done  ?  "  she  asked,  after  an  agitated 
silence.  "  What  will  people  say  ?  Not  that  I  can 
think  of  anything  to  do." 

"  Darling,  I  know  I  have  asked  you  to  make  an  im- 
possible sacrifice — to  break  off  a  most  brilliant  marriage, 
to  marry  me  and  share  the  despair,  hardships,  tortures 
of  a  life  very  different  to  any  you  have  seen.  Well  has 
Goethe  said — 

'  Love  not  the  sun  too  much,  nor  yet  the  stars, 
Come,  follow  me  to  the  realms  of  night  J' 

This  is  what  I  offer  you,  dearest.  You  can  hardly 
realise  what  a  wretched,  desolate  existence  mine  has 
been.  Resignation  is  a  miserable  refuge.  They  say 
work  gives  one  contentment,  but  unless  one  is  servile 
and  gives  in  to  the  spirit  of  the  age,  it  is  rarely  under- 
stood till  one  is  dead.  And  so  the  discouragement  is 
perpetual.  Even  your  sympathy  would  pain  mc  at 
such  times.  I  feel  then — as  I  feel  now — that  I  will 
grasp  Fate  by  the  throat ;  it  shall  not  utterly  crush 
me. 

"  But,"  said  Agnes,  a  little  frightened  at  this  out- 
burst, "  do  you  never  think  of  God  and  His  Will  ?  " 

He  returned  her  anxious  glance  with  gloomy,  almost 
compassionate  amazement. 

"  Does  God  think  of  me  ?  "  he  asked.  "  Really,  I 
cannot  feel  that  the  salvation  of  my  soul  is  so  impor- 
tant. Indeed,  any  idea  of  immortality  is  awful.  How 
could  it  ever  be  a  consolation — except  to  a  smug,  very 
self-satisfied  egoism  ?  Call  it  the  burden — or  the  cross 
of  immortality — if  you  call  it  anything.  I  wish  it  could 
be  proved  that  we  end  when  we  die.  But  physicians 
dissect  dead  bodies  to  find  the  soul.  It  would  not  be 
a  soul  if  they  could  find  it  in  the  dead.  And  imagine 
one  becoming  penitent  when  the  day  of  grace  is  over  !  " 


196  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

"  I  keep  Clement's  words  before  me,  '  The  Lord  who 
died  for  us  is  not  our  enemy!  Surely  that  is  a  splendid 
thought  against  final  despair." 

,  "  Many  thoughts  are  splendid,"  he  replied,  "  if  we 
could  believe  them  now  as  the  early  Christians  did  in 
the  first  centuries." 

Agnes,  with  parted,  whitening  lips,  could  find  no 
response.  Rennes  painted  her  afterwards  in  the  same 
attitude,  and  with  all  he  remembered  of  her  expression, 
in  his  now  famous  picture,  Pilate's  Wife. 

"You  will  never  be  happy — never,"  she  murmured  at 
last.     "  But  perhaps  no  one  is  happy." 

"  I  can  grant  that  the  saints  were  always  profoundly 
happy.  Let  me  tell  you  why.  The  state  of  the  saint 
is  one  of  dependence.  His  convictions,  therefore,  are 
enduring  and  unclouded.  He  accepts  his  trials  as 
privileges  ;  he  loses  all  sense  of  his  own  identity  ;  his 
humanity  is  merged  in  God  ;  his  ecstasies  lift  him  up 
to  heaven  and  bring  him  down  to  a  transfigured  earth. 
He  has  been  bought  with  a  ransom,  and  he  is  the  co- 
heir with  Christ.  He  is  found  worthy  of  suffering. 
But  with  artists  all  is  different.  The  saint  is  in  search 
of  holiness.  The  artist  thinks  chiefly  of  beauty.  Ho- 
liness is  a  state  of  mind — it  is  something  permanent. 
Beauty,  however,  mocks  one  half  the  time — it  may  be 
a  deception.  Anyhow,  one  cannot  define  it,  or  keep  it, 
or  even  satisfactorily  catch  it.  Our  inspired  moments, 
therefore,  alternate  with  a  miserable  knowledge  of  our 
individual  wretchedness.  We  learn  that  we  are  no 
stronger  than  our  individuality.  That  is  the  barrier 
between  us  and  our  visions.  The  saint  has  God  before 
his  eyes,  and  he  carries  Him  in  his  heart.  The  artist 
sees  only  himself  and  bears  only  the  weight  of  his  own 
incompetence.  But  these,  darling,  are  not  the  things 
I  meant  to  say  to  you,  although  they  may  explain  my 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  197 

life.  The  common  run  of  people  wouldn't  understand 
all  this  in  the  least." 

"  I  want  to  hear  all — I  want  to  enter  into  all  your 
thoughts,  David.  I  have  always  known  that  those  who 
devote  themselves  to  the  study  of  what  is  sublime  and 
beautiful  suffer  proportionately  from  the  squalor  of 
actual  facts." 

She  quoted  from  one  of  her  father's  speeches  which 
he  invariably  gave  with  much  earnestness  at  the  open- 
ing of  schools  of  art  and  similar  institutions. 

"  The  world,"  replied  Rennes,  "  rewards  the  beauti- 
ful only  inasmuch  as  it  flatters  the  senses,  and  the 
sublime  remains— so  far  as  the  general  taste  is  con- 
cerned— altogether  v.ithout  response." 

"  But  one  would  think,"  said  Agnes,  "  that  you  were 
a  disappointed  or  an  unsuccessful  man,  whereas  every 
one  admires  your  genius." 

He  laughed  at  her  practical  bent,  which  seemed  the 
more  fascinating  because  of  her  picturesque  appearance. 

"  One  often  feels  cast  down  without  the  least  cause," 
said  he ;  "  the  truth  is  we  all  want  more  praise  than 
we  get.  We  are  a  vain  lot,  that's  the  trouble.  Let 
me  paint  myself  in  the  blackest  colours.  You  must 
know  the  worst — you  must  realise  the  bad  bargain  you 
may  make.  Reckage  would  never  bore  and  tire  you 
in  this  way.     How  can  you  care  for  me?  " 

"  It  is  hard  !  "  she  said,  smiling. 

"  Darling  !  Do  you  remember  the  white  violets  at 
Woodbridge,  and  sitting  on  that  gate  looking  across 
that  deep  valley  at  the  bonfires  ?  Wasn't  it  perfect  ? 
Look  through  these  trees  now — see  the  flames  and 
smoke?  They  are  burning  dead  leaves  and  twigs.  I 
wish  I  could  burn  my  past.  This  may  be  a  good  omen 
for  me.  But  I  must  not  deceive  you ;  that  would  be 
a  bad  beginning." 


198  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

"  We  must  decide  on  some  course,"  said  Agnes. 
"  Your  letter  was  quite  clear,  but  I  suppose  I  am  not 
going  on  as  I  ought  to  do.  My  present  position  is 
that  of  a  person  telling  a  lie  to  people.  Before  you 
wrote,  however,  I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  some 
change.  I  could  give  no  good  grounds  for  carrying 
out  my  engagement  to  Beauclerk.  The  motives  would 
not  bear  examination.  I  intended  to  be  patient  till  the 
way  was  mercifully  cleared  for  me.  Even  birds,  in 
cold  weather,  grow  tame  from  distress.  So  I  waited  in 
a  dull,  frozen  way  for  what  might  happen." 

He  remembered,  with  a  pang  of  remorse,  that  he  had 
once  called  this  devoted  woman  an  accomplished,  in- 
curable Philistine. 

"  I  must  put  myself  in  the  wrong  with  regard  to 
Beauclerk,"  she  continued  quietly.  "  That  is  merely 
fair  to  him.  Every  one  shall  know  that  I  have  been 
weak  and  vacillating.  May  God  forgive  me  and  humble 
me — for  I  shall  not  be  understood,  even  by  many  good 
people.  But  the  next  worst  thing  to  making  an  error 
is  to  abide  by  it.  Dear  David,  try  to  follow  my  feel- 
ing. It  has  all  passed  in  my  mind  in  such  a  way  that 
it  is  impossible  for  me  to  describe  it.  In  a  sense,  giv- 
ing Reckage  up  seems  to  uproot  me  altogether  from  all 
my  former  life,  and  the  future  is  only  not  a  blank  be- 
cause it  is  such  a  mystery.  I  am  sure,  though,  that 
sorrow  is  never  in  God's  ordinance  the  xvJwle  law  of 
life.     These  are  great  compensations." 

"  Anything  is  better  than  to  sit  still  and  dream,"  said 
Rennes.  "  I  have  dreamt  too  long.  I  find  solitude 
oppressive.  Yet  you  will  admit  how  dreadful  it  is  to 
live  among  those  who  don't  know  or  don't  care  a  bit 
about  art." 

"  But  there  are  other  interests  equally  engrossing." 

"  Not  to  me.     And  even   Epicurean  advice  is    only 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  199 

the  way  to  ignominious,  contemptible  happiness.  I 
must  have  an  ideal  life  or  else  annihilation — splendid 
misery  or  splendid  content — nothing  between  the  two." 

"You  have  not  half  showed  your  capabilities  yet," 
replied  Agnes.  "  We  have  to  look  upon  this  world  as 
the  merest  pilgrimage,  but  we  can  help  each  other.  I 
have  hope  because  I  have  faith.  Sara  de  Treverell  said 
the  other  day  that,  in  men,  experience  often  makes 
mere  callousness  of  character.     Is  this  true,  David  ?  " 

"  Not  of  me ;  you  have  saved  me  from  the  worst 
things.  But  it  simply  worries  and  almost  exasperates 
me  to  hear  religious  talk  from  any  one.  When  I  hear 
a  sermon  I  feel  an  inclination  always  to  say,  '  My  dear 
fellow,  can't  you  put  your  case  better  ?  '  I  want  good 
stuff  about  Divine  and  human  nature — not  this  vague- 
ness and  platitude.  Why  don't  they  tell  one  something 
about  the  optimism  of  God,  even  before  the  spectacle 
of  men's  weakness  ?  But,  instead,  we  are  told  to  moan 
about  this  vale  of  tears  ;  we  are  promised  chastise- 
ments, disappointments,  woes,  persecution.  A  phil- 
osophy of  suffering  makes  men  strong,  but  a  phil- 
osophy of  despair  is  bound  to  make  a  generation  of 
pleasure-seekers." 

"  And  why  ?  " 

"  Because  the  veritable  world,  even  on  its  bare 
merits,  is  ?tot  so  bad.  It  is  full  of  beauty,  and  interest, 
and  enjoyment.  It  is  a  lie  to  call  it  so  many  vile 
names.  One's  good  sense  revolts.  Do  you  think, 
darling,  that  I  could  look  at  you,  love  you,  be  loved  by 
you,  and  call  life  a  bad  joke  ?  " 

Since  the  beginning  of  time  this  logic  has  held  its 
own  against  all  scientific  criticism.  The  two,  being 
secure  from  observation,  kissed  each  other  and  accepted 
the  earth  with  perfect  cheerfulness.  They  made  some 
plans,  and  after  the  agony  of  parting  till  the  next  day, 


200  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

each  went  home  to  write  the  other  a  long  letter.  In 
the  course  of  the  afternoon  Rennes  passed  through 
Arlington  Street  four  times  in  a  hansom  and  twice  on 
foot.  Agnes  was  always  at  one  of  the  windows  inno- 
cently observing  the  weather.  He  thought  her  the 
loveliest  thing  created.  He  pitied,  with  benevolence, 
all  other  men,  and  he  spent  an  hour  at  his  solicitor's 
office,  without  begrudging  the  time,  or  chafing  under 
the  fatigue. 

Two  days  later  Lord  Reckage  received  the  following 
communication  from  Miss  Carillon  : — 

"  My  Dear  Beauclerk, — 

"  This  letter  will  astonish  and  grieve  you.  I  have 
written  several.  None  please  me.  All  say  too  much 
and  yet  leave  all  unsaid.  I  must  send  this  one  and 
trust  to  your  generosity.  I  am  wholly  to  blame, 
wholly  in  the  wrong.  I  am  no  actress,  but  I  have  been 
acting  a  part — the  part  of  a  happy  woman.  My  efTort 
has  deceived  many — Papa,  Mamma,  and,  I  believe,  you 
among  them.  Dear  Beauclerk,  you  will  think  me  un- 
grateful, false,  weak.  I  don't  excuse  myself.  As  I 
have  said,  the  blame  is  all  mine,  and  the  punishment 
must  be  all  mir.e. 

"  When  you  receive  this  I  shall  have  left  England  with 
Mr.  Rennes.  He  had  arranged  to  go  to  the  East  for  a 
long  time.  (This  will  show  you  how  little  he  antici- 
pated any  change  in  my  plans.)  When  I  realised  that 
I  should  have  to  say  good-bye  to  him,  probably  for 
ever,  I  found  myself  unequal  to  the  trial.  I  could  not 
let  him  go  alone.  It  is  bad  for  me  to  dwell  too  much 
on  my  feelings.  I  ought  to  admit,  however,  that  I 
have  known  all  along,  in  a  sort  of  way,  that  I  should 
have  to  give  in  if  he  put  the  matter  before  me.  I  dislike 
the  talk  one  hears  so  often  about   inevitability — much 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  201 

of  it  is  made  an  excuse  for  appalling  selfishness.  At 
the  same  time,  I  understand  what  is  meant,  and  feel 
strongly,  that,  while  I  am  using  my  own  will  —  I  can- 
not use  it,  "LvitJi  a  good  conscience,  otherwise.  Can  you 
follow  this  ?  In  reality,  I  was  disloyal  to  Mr.  Rennes 
when  I  became  engaged  to  you.  I  was  impatient,  wil- 
ful, blind.  I  did  you  both  an  irreparable — yes,  an  irrep- 
arable injustice,  //i?  must  always  think  me  fickle,  and 
you  will  always  condemn  my  weakness.  I  dare  not  ask 
you  to  forgive  me.  I  dare  not  hope  for  contentment 
after  such  a  bad  beginning.  One  of  Papa's  favourite 
texts  rings  in  my  ears — '  Is  it  a  small  thing  for  you  to 
weary  men,  but  zvill  you  weary  my  God  also  ?  '  I 
mustn't  be  insincere  with  God.  But  I  do  want  you  to 
see  that  my  affection  for  Mr.  Rennes  has  taken  such  a 
hold  of  my  life  that  I  simply  cannot  fight  against  it.  I 
am  not  sentimental,  as  you  know :  I  can  be  quite  as 
sensible  as  other  people  about  life  and  its  obligations. 
I  don't  expect  romance  or  joy.  Had  I,  by  any  misfor- 
tune, met  Mr.  Rennes  after  my  marriage  with  you,  I 
cannot  bear  to  think  what  might  have  happened.  It 
isn't  nice  of  me  to  say  this.  It  is  a  painful,  humiliating 
reflection,  and  you  won't  like  to  think  that  you  ever 
cared— even  a  little — for  any  one  so  unworthy.  In 
your  kindness  you  will  say  that  this  isn't  like  me.  But 
indeed  it  is  the  real  me.  You  have  known  the  wwreal, 
sham  me.  Every  one  of  my  friends  will  be  surprised. 
I  am  not  surprised.  And  oh  !  the  relief  to  be  quite, 
quite  natural  and  straightforward  at  last.  Nothing  to 
pretend,  nothing  to  hide.  I  wish  you  had  never  known 
me.  Your  ideals  are  so  noble,  and  you  depended  on 
me  to  realise  a  few  of  them.  I  think  of  the  plans  we 
made,  the  hopes  we  formed.  Alas  !  they  were  not  for 
me.  I  am  going  forward  into  the  darkness.  I  don't 
see  one  ray  of  light.     Yet  I  haven't  one  misgiving   or 


202  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

the  least  fear,  because  I  have  the  unalterable  conviction 
that  I  am  fulfilling  my  true  destiny — whatever  it  may 
be,  good  or  evil. 

"  All  will  agree  that  you  are  well  rid  of  me.  This  is 
my  consolation.  You  have  been  kind,  considerate, 
affectionate,  thoughtful  always.  And  I  have  failed 
you. 

"  Forget  me,  and  never  judge  other  women  by  me.  I 
have  been  exceptionally  foolish. 

"Your  wretched  friend, 

"  Agnes  Carillon." 

His  lordship's  emotion  on  reading  this  letter  was  one 
of  relief  for  himself — but  pity  and  terror  for  the  girl. 
He  was  sincerely  fond  of  Agnes,  and  the  defiant 
misery  of  her  words  filled  him  with  forebodings.  But 
the  sense  of  his  own  restored  liberty  soon  dominated 
every  other  feeling;  and  his  anxiety  about  Miss 
Carillon's  future  found  complete  assuagement  in  the 
thought  that  character,  under  suffering,  came  out  with 
an  energy  and  intensity  which  made,  indisputably,  for 
progress. 

When  the  news,  after  twenty-four  hours,  became 
known,  Agnes's  wish  to  place  herself  in  the  wrong, 
beyond  sympathy,  or  hope  of  pardon,  was  freely  grati- 
fied. No  criticism  seemed  too  harsh  for  her  conduct. 
No  voice  was  lifted  in  mitigation  of  her  offence. 
Rennes  was  excused,  because  he  was  an  artist,  erratic 
and  passionate,  and  she  was  unfortunately  beautiful. 
The  poor  old  Bishop,  however,  rallied  under  the  shock, 
preached  more  vigorously  than  ever,  and  showed  a 
proud  countenance  to  his  daughter's  adversaries. 
When  he  was  able  to  announce  to  his  friends — after  a 
painful  fortnight  of  suspense — that  the  young  couple 
had  travelled  to  Rome  with   Mrs.   Rennes,  and  been 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  203 

married  at  the  English  Embassy  there,  he  gave  way  to 
a  little  illness  and  indulged  his  grief.  One  could  sur- 
render to  legalised  folly  ;  one  could  name  it.  But  sin 
and  scandal  could  only  be  faced  by  an  implacable 
reserve.  "  I  may  die  of  dismay,"  said  he  to  his  wife, 
"  but  I  will  not  die  of  disgrace." 


204  ROBERT  ORANGE. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

Scandal,  meanwhile,  was  collecting  her  eager  forces 
for  a  great  campaign  against  the  Orange  marriage. 
It  was  unanimously  decided  that  the  affair  could  not 
be  hushed  up.  Sympathy — within  wise  limits — was 
on  the  side  of  the  lovers,  but  sympathy,  nevertheless, 
expressed  a  desire  to  hear  fuller  particulars.  Society 
journalism  was,  at  that  time,  just  coming  into  vogue, 
and  the  weekly  papers  contained  several  references 
to  the  strange  rumour  of  an  approaching  divorce. 
Hartley  Penborough  and  the  members  of  the  Capitol 
Club  were  wondering  Vv'hat  line  they  ought  to  take. 
They  intended  to  stand  by  Robert,  but  they  did  not 
wish  to  advertise  their  loyalty.  The  Carlton  set  were 
divided  into  two  camps — those  who  thought  Orange 
unlucky,  and  those  who  thought  him  an  alien 
adventurer.  So  far  as  these  opinions  touched  his 
career,  both  were  damaging.  The  friends  of  Lord 
Wight  and  Lady  Fitz  Rewes  had  always  been  jealous 
of  the  young  man.  They  discussed  him  now  with 
ferocious  pity,  announcing  his  ruin  in  every  circle. 
Sara  de  Treverell  's  associates  were  mostly  of  the 
Diplomatic  Corps.  These,  well  informed  about 
Alberian  affairs  and  Parflete's  history,  feared  much 
mischief.  The  old  Catholics  were  dismayed  at  the 
new  convert's  entanglement — especially  as  he  had 
recently  been  elected  to  Parliament.  The  more 
timorous  among  them — in  a  panic — entertained  un- 
founded    doubts  about   his    orthodoxy,  and   the    rest 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  205 

deplored  the  injudicious  attention  bestowed  on  mere 
recruits  of  the  Ancient  Faith.  Converts  then  were 
looked  upon,  in  England,  with  a  certain  suspicion. 
At  that  period  the  magnificent  services  of  Dr.  Newman 
and  Cardinal  Manning  were  far  more  appreciated  at 
Rome  than  they  were  in  the  drawing-rooms  of  English 
Catholic  society.  Orange,  following  his  own  instincts 
and  the  advise  of  Newman,  avoided,  rather  than  sought 
the  small  group  which  attempted  to  make  the  Eternal 
Church  a  Select  Committee  of  the  Uncommonly  Good. 
To  one  who  had  spent  his  youth  in  a  great  Catholic 
nation,  and  came  himself  from  one  of  the  princely 
families  of  France,  the  servitude  necessarily  involved 
by  the  fact  of  joining  any  coterie — no  matter  how 
agreeable — could  possess  no  sort  of  attraction.  His 
Catholic  friends  were  chiefly  among  the  Jesuits,  an 
order  which,  by  devotion,  genius,  and  courage  has 
exited  that  fear  from  all  men  which  is  the  highest 
homage  this  world  can  offer  to  integrity.  His  personal 
sorrow,  therefore,  was  not  degraded  by  any  foolish 
additional  worry  about  the  tittle-tattle  of  this,  that,  or 
the  other  personage.  Tongues  might  wag;  for  him- 
self, he  could  but  do  his  duty  and  keep  his  account 
straight  with  God.  He  hoped  that  a  public  law-suit 
would  be  avoided.  Baron  Zeuill  was  using  his 
influence,  so  he  declared,  to  arrive  at  some  settlement 
with  Parflete.  Parflete's  agent  was  now  in  communi- 
cation with  Robert's  solicitors ;  he  himself  was  known 
to  be  in  London,  and  he  had  even  been  seen  dining 
with  foreigners  at  one  of  the  small  private  hotels  near 
the  Strand.  The  Alberian  Ambassador  informed  Mr. 
Disraeli  that  there  was  nothing  to  fear  because  Parflete 
was  not  ambitious.  "  The  corruption  of  egoism  and 
the  insatiable  love  of  pleasure  "  had  done  its  worst  to  a 
character  never   striking    for  its    energy.     He    would 


2o6  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

"  desert "  his  wife  again  if  she  would  give  him  a 
sufficient  sum.  Mrs.  Parflete,  Disraeli  pointed  out, 
was  the  last  woman  on  earth  to  agree  to  such  terms. 
She  was  alsv;  perfectly  well  aware,  he  added,  that  she  was 
the  legitimate  daughter  of  the  late  Archduke  Charles. 

"  But,"  said  the  Ambassador,  "  surely  she  will  love  the 
glory  of  her  country  and  the  respect  due  to  her  Imperial 
father's  memory  far  better  than  her  own  legal  rights?" 

"  You  can't  narrow  the  question  to  a  mere  senti- 
mental issue,"  said  Disraeli.  "  It  is  no  such  thing. 
She  has  to  defend  her  character.  Orange  must  clear 
his  reputation." 

Disraeli  had  formed  the  opinion  that  Alberia — as 
represented  by  His  Excellency — was  by  no  means 
anxious  to  see  Mrs.  Parflete's  innocence  established ; 
that,  in  fact,  the  whole  disaster  had  been  planned  and 
executed  in  the  sole  design  of  compromising  her  status. 
All  that  had  occurred,  all  that  he  had  observed  led 
him  to  this  conviction  more  and  more.  It  was  decided 
that  Brigit  should  be  summoned  at  once  from  Paris  to 
take  up  her  residence  at  the  Convent,  where  she  had 
been  well  protected  during  the  earlier  part  of  the  year. 

"  There  is  to  be  no  appeal  ad  misericordia,''  wrote 
Disraeli  to  Orange  :  "  what  you  have  done,  you  have 
done  in  good  faith  and  perfect  honesty.  Parflete,  be- 
yond a  doubt,  will  take  some  action.  His  conscience 
provides  him,  in  this  difficulty,  with  the  best  means  of 
self-advertisement  he  has  yet  found.  He  has  consulted 
several  Bishops,  the  Lord  Chief  Justice,  all  the  ambas- 
sadors, and  most  of  the  intelligent  Peers.  He  wanders 
from  one  confessional  to  another :  St.  Philip,  St. 
Teresa,  St.  Benedict,  and  St.  Dominic  are  invoked  per- 
petually for  the  disarmament  of  his  scruples.  Vanity 
blinds  him  to  the  danger  of  assassination.     Alberia  is 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  207 

in  a  red  mood.  Carissiinc,  the  dark,  inevitable  hour 
will  come.  Be  prepared  for  it.  Depend  entirely  now 
on  the  might  of  your  religious  belief.  Men  cannot  assist 
you.  I  have  helped  many,  but  no  one  has  ever  helped 
me.  Political  life  must  be  taken  as  you  find  it,  and  it 
is  neither  in  my  disposition,  nor,  I  am  sure,  in  yours, 
to  indulge  in  complaints  of  unkindness.  I  have 
reached  a  point  now  when  I  should  like  to  quote 
Dante.     Consider  him  quoted,  and  believe  me, 

"  Ever  yours, 

"D." 

The  course  of  the  intrigue  may  be  followed  most 
conveniently  at  this  point  in  the  document  known  as 
Mudara's  Confession. 

Mudara,  it  will  be  remembered,  was  in  the  Alberian 
Secret  Service.^  He  it  was  who  confirmed  the  false 
news  of  Parflete's  suicide,  and  did  so  much  to  hasten 
Orange's  marriage.     He  says  in  his  narrative : — 

The  death  of  the  Archduke  Charles — which  oc- 
curred some  weeks  before  it  was  anticipated — put  the 
Alberian  Government  to  very  grave  embarrassment. 

1.  It  was  impossible  to  deny  the  legitimacy  of  the 
Archduchess  Marie-Brigitte-Henriette  (known  as  Mrs. 
Parflete).  The  rumour  was  officially  denied,  and  every 
proper  measure  was  taken  for  the  suppression  of  a  fact 
dangerous  at  all  times  and  especially  so  during  a 
national  crisis.  Had  the  Archduchess  been  so  ill- 
advised  as  to  stand  upon  her  legal  rights,  the  case 
would  have  been  very  awkward  for  the  Government. 
They  intended,  in  any  event,  to  plead  ignorance,  and 
had  prepared  every  proof  of  their  good  faith  in  with- 
standing the  claim. 

2.  It    was  clear,   beyond   a  doubt,   on    the   highest 

'  See  The  School  for  Saints^  p.  395. 


2o8  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

ecclesiastical  authority,  that,  if  application  were  made, 
the  marriage  between  the  Archduchess  and  Parflete 
would  be  annulled  at  Rome.  Parflete  was  regarded 
with  great  suspicion.  He  was  capable  of  any  treachery. 
He  could  not  hold  his  tongue,  and  we  know  what  that 
means  at  Court.  The  one  person  he  feared  was  the 
Archduke  Charles,  and  now  that  death  had  removed 
His  Imperial  Highness,  we  understood  what  to  expect 
from  the  disgraced  Equerry. 

3.  The  Government's  Agents  had  formed  a  very 
high  opinion  of  M.  de  Hausee  (known  as  Robert 
Orange).  It  was  considered  by  the  Government's  ad- 
visers that  this  gentleman  would  use  all  his  influence 
to  crush  any  foolish  ambition  on  the  part  of  the  Arch- 
duchess Marie-Brigitte.  M.  de  Hausee  was  himself  of 
too  noble  a  family  to  care  in  the  least  for  high-sound- 
ing titles  or  empty  rights,  M.  de  Hausee  (whose 
mother  was  Scotch)  had  become  a  British  subject,  and 
had  been  elected  to  the  English  Parliament.  He  was 
under  the  protection  of  Mr.  Disraeli,  had  every  pros- 
pect of  a  brilliant  political  career  as  a  Commoner,  and 
he  had  too  much  good  sense — in  view  of  the  very  large 
fortune  settled  upon  the  Archduchess — to  diminish  it 
by  any  imprudent  insistence  on  a  claim  which,  extremely 
valuable  as  a  ground  for  some  advantageous  compro- 
mise, could  only  prove  ruinous  if  pressed  to  any  exact 
recognition.  The  Government's  advisers,  therefore, 
approved  most  highly  of  the  marriage  between  M.  de 
Hausee  and  the  Archduchess  Marie-Brigitte-Henriette, 
and  were  disposed  to  hasten  it  on  by  every  means.  On 
the  news,  properly  aiitlienticated,  of  Parflete's  suicide 
on  Lord  Soham's  yacht,  I  visited  England  and  had 
interviews  with  the  Archduchess  herself,  with  M.  de 
Hausee  at  Catesby,  and  with  Baron  Zeuill  at  Claridge's 
Hotel.     The  proofs  of  Parflete's  death  were  in  perfect 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  209 

order,  and  the  marriage  between  M.  de  Haus^e  and 
H.I.H.  took  place  in  the  Chapel  of  the  Alberian 
Embassy. 

As  I  had  made  all  the  arrangements,  I  engaged  the 
servants  for  the  reception  of  the  bride  and  groom  at 
the  Villa  Miraflores.  I  was  able  to  retain  a  small  room 
at  the  back  of  the  house  for  my  own  use.  On  the  day 
of  their  arrival,  I  concealed  myself,  without  difficulty, 
in  the  apartment  where  Mr.  Orange  and  the  Arch- 
duchess had  their  dejeuner.  It  was  an  unfortunate 
circumstance  that  I  did  not  destroy  the  telegram  which 
I  saw  on  the  mantel-piece.  But  I  supported  it  con- 
tained some  ordinary  congratulations.  A  more  vulgar 
prudence  than  mine  would  have  read  and  burnt  it  in 
any  case.  My  fault  is,  unquestionably,  a  most  inoppor- 
tune delicacy  of  feeling.  I  witnessed  the  whole  scene 
between  ]Mr.  Orange  and  Her  Imperial  Highness.  It 
brought  tears  to  my  eyes,  but  as  evidence  it  was  value- 
less for  my  purpose.  She  wept,  stormed,  and  showed 
much  feeling.  I  was  reminded  in  many  ways  of  her 
mother,  Madame  Duboc.  M.  de  Haus^e,  of  purer 
blood,  is  like  those  players  who,  in  spite  of  an  air  of  in- 
difference at  great  losses,  feel  them  none  the  less.  I 
consider  it  my  duty  as  a  gentleman  to  say  that  his 
bearing  through  the  ordeal  did  credit  to  his  noble 
family  and  his  personal  character.  The  Archduchess, 
who  is  foolhardy  and  insolent,  does  not  deserve  such  a 
lover,  and  it  is  grievous  to  think  that  such  a  termagant 
should  have  so  much  power  over  such  a  man.  I  regard 
her  as  I  would  some  poisonous  reptile.  Piety — which 
improves  most  women — only  seems  to  render  her  the 
more  defiant,  and  love — which  softens  most  wills — 
makes  hers  the  more  hard.  After  parting  with  M.  de 
Hausee  she  swooned,  and  I  thought  what  a  merciful 
thing  it  would  be  for  all  of  us  if  she  never  regained 
14 


3IO  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

consciousness.  This  idea — which  may  have  been  an 
inspiration — was  before  me,  when  I  heard  a  slight 
rustling  behind  the  curtains.  I  pulled  out  my  revolver 
(although  I  had  no  intention  of  firing),  aimed  it,  and 
said,  "  Who  is  there  ?  " 

To  my  amazement,  Parflete  himself  came  out. 

"  For  God's  sake  don't  shoot,"  said  he,  "  it  is  I." 

He  cried  bitterly  at  the  sight  of  the  Archduchess — 
for  she  was  looking  extraordinarily  beautiful.  He  cursed 
himself  loudly,  put  me  to  terrible  anxiety,  and  I  re- 
pented of  my  recklessness  in  not  getting  rid  of  such  a 
fool  long  ago.  With  great  presence  of  mind  I  rang  the 
bell,  and  we  withdrew  to  my  hiding-place  while  the 
servant  came  in,  raised  a  hue  and  cry,  and  finally  carried 
the  insensible  Archduchess  to  a  bedroom.  When  the 
coast  was  clear  we  emerged.  I  asked  Parflete  what  he 
meant  to  do,  why  he  was  there,  and  how  he  had  got 
into  the  house. 

"  To  sound  the  soul  of  another,"  said  he,  still  maud- 
lin. "  You  must  first  have  searched  deeply  your  own. 
Remorse  has  brought  me  here.  My  better  nature 
reasserts  itself."  And  more  to  that  effect.  "  There  is 
nothing  new  under  the  sun  !  "  he  wound  up. 

"  Why  should  there  be  ?  "  said  I,  exasperated.  "  Come 
to  the  point." 

"  My  wife  is  the  purest,  noblest  of  beings !  "  said  he. 

"  You  will  defend  any  jade  on  earth,  provided  she  be 
handsome,"  said  I,  but  seeing  an  ugly  light  in  his  eye, 
I  added,  "but  H.I.H.  is  certainly  respectable.  To  this 
we  have  both  been  witnesses." 

"What  is  to  be  done?"  he  cried,  beating  his  head. 
"Can  I  forget  her  interests?  Who,  better  than  I, 
should  take  the  place  of  her  adviser,  her  Prime  Minister  ? 
Affairs  in  Alberia  cannot  long  remain  in  this  violent 
state.     There  must  be  a  d^noHentent'* 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  211 

I  answered  him  sharply. 

"  You  know  quite  well  that  the  Archduchess  can 
never  hope  for  official  recognition  from  any  Alberian 
Ministry — let  alone  the  sovereigns  of  Europe.  An 
aggressive  attitude  on  her  part  could  at  most  and  at 
the  worst,  but  lead  to  these  things — a  change  of  dy- 
nasty, and  the  annexation  of  Alberia  by  one  of  the 
Powers,  or  its  partition  among  some  of  them.  We 
wish  Alberia  to  become  another  Switzerland — a  little 
Paradise  of  law-abiding,  industrious,  rich,  independent 
people !  " 

"  All  the  same,"  said  he,  "  my  wife  may  not  sell  her 
birth-right.  Such  a  proceeding  is  directly  opposite  to 
the  Will  of  God." 

"  She  will  be  a  good  claimant — after  all  this  scandal 
with  the  Carlists  and  de  Haus^e,"  said  I.  "  I  can  im- 
agine the  welcome  extended  to  her  by  Bismarck !  We 
have  seen  enough  of  this  kind  of  thing  in  France  and 
Spain." 

We  talked  for  an  hour.  He  was  as  obstinate  as  a 
mule  and  as  incoherent  as  running  water.  I  could 
grasp  him  nowhere.  It  was  like  groping  in  a  well  for 
a  lighted  torch.  No  doubt  he  had  formed  in  his  own 
mind  some  obscure,  incalculable  intrigue,  but  no  reason 
can  guess  the  plans  which  are  made  by  an  unreasoning 
person. 

"  The  Archduchess  is  rich,  young,  and  handsome," 
said  I  ;  "it  would  be  folly  to  change  her  noble  inde- 
pendence for  a  political  slavery  fatal  to  her  peace — 
perhaps  her  life." 

"  But  duty  is  above  such  weak  considerations,"said  he, 
rolling  his  eyes.  "  My  wife  must  remember  the  nation." 

"  Do  you  believe,"  I  rejoined,  "  that  you  would  get 
the  nation's  sanction  to  the  general  upset  which  you 
propose?    You  must  be  mad." 


212  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

"Nations  go  mad,"  said  he,  smiling;  "why  not  to 
my  advantage,  then,  as  well  as  yours  ?  " 

He  refused  to  tell  me  how  he  got  into  the  house,  but 
it  must  have  been  by  bribery.  His  sneers  and  insults 
were  insinuated  with  such  skill  that  retaliation  on  the 
spot  was  impossible.  He  made  his  escape  by  suddenly 
extinguishing  the  lamp,  which  left  the  room  in  pitch 
darkness.  I  felt  it  would  be  undignified  to  stumble 
about  in  vain  pursuit  of  a  man  so  active  and  so  canaille 
in  all  his  methods.  He  must  have  been  on  good  terms 
with  the  servants,  for  a  considerable  time  elapsed  before 
they  replied  to  my  summons,  and  when  I  asked  them, 
each  in  turn,  whether  he  had  been  seen,  one  and  all 
assumed  the  greatest  astonishment  and  innocence,  but 
none  appeared  in  any  way  alarmed,  which  they  must 
have  done  had  they  not  been  well  aware  of  his  presence 
in  the  house.  I  said  no  more,  for,  by  treating  the  mat- 
ter lightly,  I  made  them  look — to  themselves — dupes 
and  very  ridiculous.  I  remained  at  the  Villa  until  the 
Archduchess  and  Lady  Fitz  Rewes  departed  for  Paris. 
I  had  a  short  interview  with  M.  de  Hausee  in  my  char. 
acter  as  the  late  Archduke's  Agent.  Our  conversation 
was  purely  in  connection  with  H.I.H.'s  money  matters, 
although  he  said  with  great  firmness  at  the  close,  "  The 
Archduchess  will  never  embarrass  Alberian  affairs.  Her 
taste  is  not  for  Courts  or  politics."  I  know  this  is  his 
true  conviction,  but  he  is  in  love,  and  he  measures  her 
by  his  own  unselfishness.  He  won  my  heart  strangely. 
In  all  my  experience,  he  is  the  one  honest  man  who  is 
not  a  little  idiotic  into  the  bargain.  I  deplore  the  in- 
fluence of  women  on  such  a  character,  and  I  would 
have  saved  him  from  that  Judith. 

Here,  for  the  present,  we  must  leave  Mudara's 
narrative. 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  213 


CHAPTER   XVIII. 

The  Alberian  Ambassador,  Prince  d'Alchingen,  con- 
sidered himself  a  diplomatist  of  the  Metternich  school. 
He  had  imagination,  sentimentality,  and  humour:  he 
preferred  to  attack  the  strength  rather  than  the  weak- 
nesses of  mankind,  and  in  all  his  schemes  he  counted 
inconsistency  among  the  passions,  and  panic  among 
the  virtues.  He  still  hoped  that  Orange  might  be 
tempted  by  the  prospect  of  immediate  happiness  to 
press  for  the  nullity  of  the  Parflete  marriage.  Parflete 
himself  was  indulging  in  the  most  extravagant  demon- 
strations of  remorse.  He  behaved,  as  Disraeli  said, 
more  like  a  cunning  woman  than  an  able  man,  and  he 
was  an  agent  of  the  kind  most  dangerous  to  his  em- 
ployers— irregularly  scrupulous,  fond  of  boasting  of  his 
acquaintance  with  princes  and  ministers,  so  vain  that 
he  would  rather  have  had  notoriety  without  glory,  than 
glory  without  notoriety.  He  had  found  the  means  of 
ingratiating  himself  with  many  persons  of  high  rank, 
and  he  knew  how  to  avail  himself,  with  each,  of  his  in- 
fluence with  the  others.  Never  did  an  intrigue  require 
more  urgently  a  sort  of  conduct  quite  out  of  the  com- 
mon routine.  The  Prince,  therefore,  was  much  per- 
turbed in  mind,  and  cast  about  him  for  a  trustworthy 
associate.  By  an  associate  he  meant  some  one  on  whom 
he  could  test  the  quality  of  his  deceit — in  other  words, 
he  liked  to  try  his  sword  on  gossamer  and  granite  be- 
fore he  struck  out  at  commoner  materials.  Among  his 
friendships,  he  prosecuted  none  with  such  zeal  as  that 


214  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

with  the  Lady  Sara  de  Treverell.  As  the  member  of  a 
great  Russian  house,  she  was  especially  attractive  to 
Alberian  speculation,  but  her  beauty  and  cleverness 
no  doubt  assisted  the  Ambassador's  determination  to 
make  himself  agreeable.  The  two  constantly  ex- 
changed letters,  and,  as  the  Princess  d'Alchingen  was 
an  invalid  who  devoted  her  hours  to  spiritual  read- 
ing, she  gladly  permitted  Lady  Sara's  influence,  realis- 
ing— with  the  priceless  knowledge  of  a  spirit  made 
reasonable  through  pain — that  the  girl  was  romantic 
and  the  Prince  incurably  old.  His  flaxen  wig  height- 
ened the  tone  of  a  complexion  much  ravaged  by  gout 
and  its  antidotes.  His  nebulous  eyes  with  twitching 
lids  were  not  improved  by  the  gold-rimmed  glasses 
which  magnified  their  insignificance.  He  possessed  a 
striking  nose  and  chin,  but,  as  these  features  were  more 
characteristic  than  delightful,  they  offered  his  wife  no 
occasions  for  serious  anxiety.  Whenever  His  Excel- 
lency required  feminine  advice,  it  was  considered  quite 
en  rigle  that  Lady  Sara  should  be  consulted.  The 
Princess  herself  drove  him  to  St.  James's  Square  on 
the  afternoon  following  Mr.  Disraeli's  call.  She  sent 
mille  tcndresses  to  her  chdrie,  and  bitterly  regretted 
that  she  was  not  well  enough  to  leave  the  carnage. 
The  Prince  kissed  her  hand,  bowed  superbly,  stood 
bareheaded  in  a  draught  till  the  brougham  drove  away 
(in  these  matters  he  had  no  equal),  and,  having  warned 
Sara  of  his  intended  visit  by  a  special  messenger,  he 
had  the  pleasure  of  finding  the  young  lady  alone.  Fol- 
lowing her  custom,  she  was  appropriately  dressed  for 
the  occasion  in  prune-coloured  velvet,  which  suggested 
dignity,  and  very  beautiful  antique  Spanish  lace,  which 
symbolised  the  long  endurance  of  things  apparently  too 
delicate,  subtle,  and  trifling  for  the  assaults  of  time. 
The  Prince  kissed  both  of  her  white  hands,  and  lamented 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  215 

the  obstacles  which  had  kept  them  apart  for  so  many 
insupportable  weeks.  He  had  lived  on  her  letters. 
They  had  been,  however,  few  and  short. 

"What  is  troubling  you,  sir  ?  "  asked  Sara,  "you  look 
pale." 

"  For  once  in  my  life  I  wish  to  do  a  foolish  thing — 
pour  encourager  les  autres,'"  was  his  reply.  "  I  intend 
to  meddle  with  a  love-affair." 

"  Whose  love-affair?  " 

"  I  will  tell  you  presently.  I  never  venture  upon 
any  work  trusting  alone  to  my  hopes.  I  am  not  of 
those  who  discover  rifts  in  their  harness  only  on  the 
morning  of  the  battle  !  I  prepare  for  all  contingencies. 
First,  then,  let  me  put  you  through  a  little  catechism. 
Do  men  ever  believe  evil  reports  about  the  women  they 
love  ?  " 

"  The.  posse  noji  peccare  is  not  the  7ion  posse  peccare" 
said  Sara  quickly. 

"  Do  you  mean  that  they  can  believe  the  evil,  but, 
as  a  rule,  they  won't  ?  "  returned  the  Prince. 

"You  translate  freely,  but  you  have  caught  the 
spirit !  " 

"  Very  well.  I  come  to  my  second  question.  Is  a 
man  better  off  with  a  dangerous  woman  whom  he  adores 
that  with  a  good  woman  who  adores  him  ?  " 

"  All  men  who  desire  love,  deserve  it,"  said  Sara. 
"  The  means  to  this  are  always,  in  a  manner,  cer- 
tainties, the  end  is  always  problematical.  But  those 
who  want  love  could  never  be  satisfied  with  mere 
welfare — never." 

"  You  have  a  right  to  direct  my  opinion,"  he  ex- 
claimed ;  "where  else  do  I  hear  such  sound  good  sense? 
The  usual  women  one  meets  in  our  circle  are  old,  ugly, 
and  proud — incapable  of  conversation  Vv'ith  persons  of 
intelligence.     My  wife,"   he  added   smoothly,  "  makes 


2i6  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

this  complaint  about  her  lady  friends.     It  is  very  dull 
and  very  sad  for  her,  although  she  is  a  saint." 

No  conversation  or  letter  was  ever  exchanged  be- 
tween Sarah  and  the  Prince  without  some  emphatic 
tribute  to  the  sanctity,  prudence,  and  charm  of  the 
Princess. 

"  The  dear  Princess  !  "  murmured  Sara. 

"  And  now,"  said  His  Excellency,  drawing  his  chair 
an  inch  nearer,  "  I  must  be  serious.  You  have  guessed, 
of  course,  that  I  am  thinking  about  Robert  Orange  and 
Mrs.  Parflete.  I  stayed  at  Brookes's  till  after  twelve 
last  night  in  hopes  of  seeing  Orange.  I  was  discussing 
him  with  Lord  Reckage." 

"  What  did  Reckage  say  ?  " 

"  Reckage  doesn't  mind  raising  a  blister,  but  he 
won't  often  tell  one  what  he  thinks." 

Sara  shivered  a  little  and  compressed  her  lips. 

"  Reckage  is  fond  of  Orange,"  she  said,  "  yet  there  is 
a  certain  jealousy.  .  .  .  Formerly,  Orange  had  need  of 
Reckage,  and  depended  on  him ;  now  Reckage  needs 
him  and  depends  on  Orange.  Could  he  but  know  it. 
Orange  is  the  one  creature  who  could  pull  him  through 
his  difficulties  with  the  Bond  of  Association.  A  man 
who  has  no  personal  ambition,  who  desires  nothing 
that  any  one  can  give,  who  fears  nothing  that  any  one 
can  do,  who  lives  securely  in  the  presence  of  God,  is  a 
power  we  must  not  under-rate." 

She  spoke  with  enthusiasm — the  enthusiasm  which 
women  seldom,  if  ever,  display  for  principle  on  its 
bare  merits.  By  the  deepening  colour  in  her  eyes  and 
sudden  clearness  in  her  cheeks,  the  Ambassador  felt 
that  he  had  reached  a  point  where  the  emotions  would 
have  to  be  considered,  even  though  they  might  not  be 
counted  on. 

"  I    have    not    time   to    tell   you    all    the    nonsense 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  217 

Reckage  said,"  he  answered.  "  So  far  as  my  own 
judgment  can  serve  for  a  guide,  I  believe  that  he 
would  like  to  see  Orange  under  the  care  and  discipline 
of  St.  Ignatius," 

"  He  wishes  him  to  become  a  Jesuit  priest  ?  How 
selfish  !  " 

"  Such  is  my  impression.  He  wants  so  competent 
a  colleague  removed  from  the  political  sphere.  If  his 
words  and  actions  are  of  a  piece,  he  will  certainly 
work  hard  to  attain  this  object.  He  is  saying  every- 
where, '  Orange  is  a  born  ecclesiastic.  Orange  is  a 
mystic.  Orange  is  under  the  influence  of  Newman. 
Orange  begins  to  see  that  marriage  is  not  for  him.' 
Such  remarks  don't  help  outside  the  Church.  Really, 
competition  renders  the  nicest  people  detestable." 

Lady  Sara  could  not  conceal  her  agitation.  But  she 
bafifled  her  companion  a  little  by  saying — 

"  I  suppose  you  want  Orange  to  marry  your 
inopportune  Archduchess?" 

"  The  lady  in  question  is  certainly  inopportune.  I 
have  never  called  her  an  Archduchess.  I  leave  such 
audacities  to  her  enemies !  But  tell  me  what  you 
think  of  Mrs.  Parflete  ?  " 

"  I  have  never  seen  her.  Pens^e  Fitz  Rewes  insists 
that  she  is  beautiful,  cold,  determined,  and  uncommon." 

"  Generally,  there  is  nothing  so  fatal  to  a  woman's 
success  in  the  world  as  an  early  connection  with  a 
scoundrel.  I  have  odd  accounts  of  Mrs.  Parflete  from 
Madrid — the  Marquis  of  Castrillon  and  an  upstart 
called  Bodava  fought  a  duel  about  her  in  Baron 
Zeuill's  gymnasium.  A  man  called  William  Caffle, 
who  attended  to  their  wounds,  has  given  me  fullest 
particulars  of  the  affair.  I  don't  wish  to  injure  the 
lady,  but  on  account  of  eventualities  which  might 
arise,  I  am  obliged  to  look  a  little  about  me." 


3i8  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

'*  I  understand,"  said  Sara. 

"The  great  point  is  not  to  let  Parflete  take  the  lead 
in  the  settlement.  His  present  course  of  action  isn't 
quite  decent  or  consistent.  Will  Orange  do  nothing? 
It  is  wise  to  make  peace  whilst  there  is  some  faint 
appearance  of  choice  left  on  the  subject,  so  there  is  no 
time  to  be  wasted." 

"  What  ought  Orange  to  do  ?  " 

"  Reckage  declares  that  he  will  not  appeal  to  Rome. 
There  he  is  well-advised.  But  as  he  has  already  com- 
promised Mrs.  Parflete,  surely  his  present  scruples 
are  entirely  new  and  unlooked  for?  We  must  both 
despise  him,  if  he  should  abandon  her  now." 

"  He  has  never  compromised  her,"  said  Sara  indig- 
nantly. "  He  has  even  been  ridiculed  for  his  honour. 
I  had  no  idea.  Excellence,  that  you  were  so  wicked ! " 

"  How  else  could  I  know  all  the  news  twenty-four 
hours  before  the  rest  of  the  world !  This,  however, 
is  no  laughing  matter.  Parflete  may  ask  his  wife  to 
return  to  him.     It  may  suit  her  purpose  to  agree." 

"  What  ?  A  woman  who  loves,  or  who  has  loved — 
Robert  Orange  ?  A  few  things  in  human  nature  are 
still  impossible." 

Prince  d'Alchingen  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and 
continued — 

"  Parflete  has  a  good  back-stairs  knowledge  of 
Alberian  politics.  We  never  deny  this,  but  we  always 
add  that  he  was  dismissed,  in  disgrace,  from  the  Im- 
perial Household." 

"  Is  there  much  use  in  denying  the  fact  that  he 
married  the  Archduke's  daughter?" 

"  We  meet  the  case  by  saying  that  the  Archduke 
in  his  youth  may  not  have  been  exempt  from  manly 
follies.  And  Duboc  was  irresistible — she  drove  one 
mad ! " 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  219 

"  Then  why  all  this  fuss  ?  " 

"  To  avoid  more  fuss — on  a  large  scale." 

"  But  I  have  always  heard  that  Mrs.  Parflete  has 
no  intention  of  giving  trouble.  They  say  she  is  an 
angel." 

"  You  will  find  that  she  would  far  rather  be  an 
Archduchess !  Orange  may  discover  that  his  Beatrice 
is  nearly  related  to  Rahab  !  " 

"  Oh,  I  cannot  think  you  are  right." 

"  Then  you  should  hear  Zeuill  and  General  Prim  on 
the  subject.  The  Marquis  of  Castrillon  is  in  London. 
Our  friend  Parflete  will  soon  be  labouring  with  copious 
materials  for  a  divorce." 

"  How  can  you  assume  such  horrors ! "  said  Sara. 

"  The  imagination,"  said  His  Excellency,  "  is  always 
more  struck  by  likelihoods  than  the  reason  convinced 
by  the  examination  of  facts !  My  dear  friend,  let  us 
survey  the  position.  Orange  does  not  seem  to  have 
the  most  distant  idea  of  making  Mrs.  Parflete  his — his 
belle  amie.  Well  and  good.  But  ought  he,  at  his  age, 
so  handsome,  so  brilliant,  so  much  a  man,  to  renounce 
all  other  women  for  the  sake  of  a  little  adventuress  ? 
Can  nothing  be  done?  If  he  could  have  some  con- 
vincing proof  of  her  treachery,  would  he  not  turn  to 
others  more  beautiful,  more  worthy " 

"  To  Lady  Fitz  Rewes,"  said  Sara  quickly. 

"  If  you  like,"  replied  the  Prince,  in  his  gentlest 
voice. 

For  a  second  or  two  each  of  them  looked  away. 
Sara  glanced  toward  her  canaries  in  their  cage.  Prince 
d  'Alchingen  leant  forward  to  inhale  the  perfume  of 
some  violets  in  a  vase  near  him. 

"  Delicious  !  "  he  murmured,  "  delicious  !  " 

"  Mr.  Disraeli,"  said  Sara,  still  gazing  at  the  birds, 
"  has  always  wished  for  the  marriage  with  Lady  Fitz 


220  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

Rewes.  Yet  what  can  we  do  ?  I  cannot  see  the  end 
of  it." 

"The  heroic  are  plotted  against  by  evil  spirits,  com- 
forted by  good  ones,  but  in  no  way  constrained," 
observed  the  Ambassador ;  "  let  us  then  support 
Mr,  Orange,  and  wait  for  his  own  decision.  I  doubt 
whether  we  could  drive  him  to  Lady  Fitz  Rewes." 

"  To  whom  else  ?  "  asked  Sara,  fastening  some  flowers 
in  her  belt.  They  were  white  camellias  sent  that 
morning  from  the  infatuated,  still  hopeful  Duke  of 
Marshire.     "  To  whom  else — if  not  Pens^e  ?  " 

"  I  dare  not  answer  such  questions  yet.  Have  pa- 
tience  and  you  shall  see  what  you  shall  see.  Much 
will  hinge  on  the  events  of  the  next  few  days." 

"  I  will  not  believe,"  she  insisted,  "  that  Robert 
Orange  has  been  deceived  by  that  woman." 

"  You  may  change  your  opinion.  Come  to  Hadley 
Iiodge  next  Saturday — I  ask  no  more." 

"  Really,  sir,"  said  Sara,  with  a  mocking  smile,  "  you 
frighten  me.  Am  I  at  last  to  fly  through  an  intrigue 
on  the  wings  of  a  conspiracy  ?  " 

The  Prince  smiled  also, but  he  saw  that  the  lady  had 
risen  to  the  occasion  and  would  not  prove  false  to  her 
Asiatic  blood. 

"  Mrs.  Parflete  and  Castrillon  are  cut  out  for  each 
other,"  said  he,  "  but  Orange  has  no  business  in  that 
galere.     He  is  reserved  for  a  greater  fate." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  said  Sara. 

"  All  now  depends  on  you." 

"On  me?" 

"  Plainly.  Reckage  wishes  Orange  to  get  out  of 
his  way  and  become  a  Religious.  Can  this  be  per- 
mitted ? " 

"  It  would  be  outrageous.     It  would  be  a  crime." 

"  Ah,  worse  than   that.     It  might  prove  a  success. 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  221 

We  don't  want  any  more  strong  men  in  the  Church 
just  now." 

Sara  agreed.  She,  too,  was  opposed  to  the  Church. 
And  she  was  glad  of  the  excuse  this  thought  offered 
for  the  pains  she  would  take  to  save  Orange  from  the 
Vatican  grasp. 

"  Then  we  are  allies,"  said  His  Excellency.  "  You 
will  help  me." 

"Gladly,  and  what  is  more,  as  a  duty.     But  how?" 

"  Keep  the  two  men  apart,  and  treat  both  of  them — 
both — with  kindness." 

His  Excellency  then  rose,  kissed  her  hands  once 
more,  and  took  his  departure.  Sara,  when  the  door 
was  closed,  paced  the  floor  with  swift  and  desperate 
steps,  as  though  she  were  encircled  by  thoughts  which, 
linked  together,  danced  round  her  way  so  that  whether 
she  retreated  or  advanced,  swayed  to  the  right  or  to  the 
left,  they  held  her  fast. 


222  ROBERT  ORANGE. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

Lord  Garrow,  under  his  daughter's  command,  had 
issued  invitations  for  a  dinner-party  that  same  evening 
to  a  few  friends,  who,  it  was  hoped,  would  support  the 
Meeting  which  Reckage  was  endeavouring  to  organise 
as  a  protest  against  Dr.  Temple's  nomination.  The 
guests  included  Reckage  himself.  Orange,  Charles 
Aumerle,  the  Dowager  Countess  of  Larch,  Hartley 
Penborough,  Lady  Augusta  Hammit,  and  the  Bishop 
of  Calbury's  chaplain, — the  Rev.  Edwin  Pole-Knox. 

Sara,  arrayed  in  white  satin  and  opals,  sat  at  the 
piano  playing  the  Faiist  of  Berlioz,  and  wondering 
whether  she  had  really  arranged  her  table  to  perfection, 
when  the  footman  brought  the  following  note — dashed 
off  in  pencil — from  Lord  Reckage : — 

"  Almouth  House. 
"  An  extraordinary  thing  has  happened.  Agnes  has 
run  away  with  David  Rennes.  She  seems  quite  broken, 
and  her  letter  is  too  touching,  too  sacred  to  show. 
As  for  him,  it  is  difificult  to  say  what  he  could  give,  or 
what  I  would  accept,  as  an  excuse.  She,  however,  has 
my  full  forgiveness,  and  perhaps  good  may  come  of  so 
much  sorrow  and  duplicity.  I  must  see  you  after  the 
others  have  gone  to-night.  My  plan  is  to  leave  early — 
probably  with  Orange  and  Aumerle,  but  I  will  return 
later.     I  need  your  counsel.  B." 

Sara,  who  was  always  in  league  with  audacity, 
clapped  her   hands   at  the   tidings  of  Miss  Carillon's 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  223 

bold  move.  She  was  not  surprised,  for,  as  we  have 
seen,  she  had  read  the  girl's  character  truly,  and 
warned  Orange  that  some  event  of  the  kind  would 
happen.  But  the  pleasure  she  took  in  this  confirma- 
tion of  her  own  prophetic  gifts  was  alloyed  by  the 
fear  that  Reckage,  now  at  liberty,  would  prove  a 
masterful,  jealous,  and  embarrassing  lover.  Nor  were 
her  forebodings  on  this  score  lessened  when  he  arrived, 
evidently  in  a  strange  mood,  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
before  the  appointed  time.  His  eyes  travelled  over 
her  face  with  a  consuming  scrutiny,  to  which  she  was 
unaccustomed  and  for  which  she  found  herself  unpre- 
pared. For  a  moment  she  experienced  the  disadvan- 
tages of  a  guilty  conscience,  and  although  she  had, 
so  far,  merely  considered  various  plans  for  using  his 
devotion  without  peril  to  her  own  independence,  she 
felt  that  the  moment  for  deliberation  was  past,  that 
the  duel  between  them  had  begun. 

"  You  have  my  note,"  he  said,  "and  I  would  rather 
not  talk  about  Agnes  to-night.  On  that  point  I  am  in  a 
stupor.  I  can't  realise  the  disaster  at  all.  I  might  seem 
unfeeling,  whereas  I  am  insensible,  or  unconscious,  or 
mentally  chloroformed — anything   you  like  to  call  it." 

"  I  can  see  that  you  have  received  a  great  blow," 
answered  Sara  looking  down. 

"  I  suppose  so.  And  at  present  I  am  stunned.  Wait 
a  week  and  I  may  be  able  to  grasp  the  case — I  won't 
say  calmly,  for  I  couldn't  be  calmer  than  I  am  at  this 
very  moment.  But  I  will  say  with  understanding, 
with  justice.  Give  me  no  credit  yet  for  either.  To  be 
frank,  I  don't  recognise  myself  in  this  crisis.  As  a  rule 
I  have  an  impulse — more  or  less  violent — to  some  ex- 
treme measure.  ...  I  saw  d'Alchingen  this  after- 
noon,— "  he  added  abruptly. 

He  did  not  add  that  the    Prince    had    given  several 


224  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

striking  reasons  for  the  Lady  Sara's  interest  in  Robert 
Orange.  His  Excellency  in  so  acting,  may  not  have 
been  aware  that  he  was  pouring  such  confidences  into 
the  ear  of  a  jealous  man,  but  he  wished  to  divert  gossip 
from  himself,  and  he  was  becoming  afraid  lest  his  inti- 
macy with  the  brilliant,  dangerous  girl  might  give  rise 
to  criticism.  "  She  talks  and  writes  incessantly  about 
Orange,"  he  had  said  ;  "  what  a  marriage  it  would  be  ! 
I  hope  it  may  be  brought  about."  This  suggestion 
drove  Reckage's  thoughts  toward  a  fatal  survey  of  the 
past  year.  He  discovered,  as  he  believed,  irresistible 
proofs  of  Sara's  infatuation,  and,  what  was  worse,  clear 
evidence  of  Robert's  sly  encouragement  of  that  weak- 
ness. Why  else  had  he  borne  the  severance  from  Mrs. 
Parflete  with  such  astonishing  fortitude?  How  else 
did  he  keep  up  his  spirits  in  the  face  of  a  grotesque, 
if  unfortunate,  adventure?  The  answer  was  plain 
enough.  Sara's  sympathy  and  the  reasonable  hopes 
necessarily  attached  to  so  much  kindness  had  sus- 
tained him  through  the  bitterness  of  all  his  trials. 

"  Have  you  ever  thought,"  said  Reckage  with  pre- 
tended carelessness,  "  that  Orange's  serenity  just  now 
is  somewhat  unnatural?     Is  it  all  religion?  " 

"  I  believe  that  neither  of  us  can  form  any  con- 
ception of  his  capacity  for  suffering,  or  the  support  he 
finds  in  his  Belief." 

"  It  points  to  fanaticism  no  doubt.  He  is  a  Cardi- 
nal in  petto.  The  Catholics  want  spirit  everywhere, 
and  Orange  has  got  spirit.  His  vocation  lies  toward 
the  Vatican.  His  morals  are  as  good  as  his  build — 
which  is  saying  much.  D'Alchingen  was  remarking 
how  extraordinarily  well  set  up  he  is.  He  would  have 
done  well  in  the  army.     He  cuts  an  effective  figure." 

"He  is   distinguished;     would  one  call  him   hand* 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  225 

"  There  is  a  nobility  about  him,  of  course.  I  am  won- 
dering whether  he  is  really  so  clever  as  many  make  out. 
He  is  learned  and  thoughtful ;  he  has  plenty  of  pluck 
and  he's  the  best  fellow  in  the  world.     But " 

"  I  wish  I  knew  him  better,"  sighed  the  young  lady; 
"  I  liked  him  and  believed  in  him  on  the  strength  of 
your  recommendation.  That  was  an  immense  preju- 
dice in  his  favour." 

She  looked  up  with  a  sweet  and  trustful  smile  which 
would  have  satisfied  a  harder  adversary  than  Reckage. 
He  was  not  so  hard,  however,  as  he  was  egoistic,  and  it 
was  not  a  question  of  softening  his  heart.  Sara  had 
the  far  more  difficult  task  of  soothing  his  tortured 
vanity. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said,  losing  caution,  "that  I 
want  you  to  take  him  up  quite  so  strongly!  No  one 
could  call  him  a  coxcomb,  yet  he,  not  aware  of  the  real 
cause  of  your  interest,  might  be  overflattered.  He 
might  eventually  begin  to  hope " 

"  What  ?  "  she  asked  with  burning  cheeks. 

"  All  sorts  of  things.  He's  a  man,  and  you  are  beau- 
tiful. And  I  have  heard  him  say  a  thousand  times 
that  so  called  Platonics  are  possible  for  one  of  the 
two,  but  never  for  both.  Doesn't  this  explain  the 
many  cases  of  unrequited  love?  You  are  vexed,  I  can 
see  it.  But  I  am  not  thinking  of  you.  I  am  thinking 
of  Robert." 

"  He  is  not  so  sentimental  as  you  imagine." 

"Isn't  he?  This  affair  with  Mrs.  Parflete  was  pure 
sentimentality  from  beginning  to  end — a  poet's  love. 
He  would  have  another  feeling  for  you — something 
much  stronger.  You  are  so  human,  Sara.  I  would 
far  sooner  kill  you  than  write  poetry  to  you.  You  are 
life — not  literature.  That  little  thing  with  shining 
hair  and  a  porcelain  face  is  for  dreams.  Of  course  he 
15 


226  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

will  always  love  her — after  a  fashion.  He  might  even 
compare  you  with  her  and  find  her  your  superior  in  every 
way  except  as  a  woman.  We  may  be  at  moments 
poets,  at  moments  saints,  but  the  greater  part  of  the 
time,  a  man  is  a  man.  And  you  are  no  friend  for  a 
man.  Pensee  Fitz  Rewes  might  answer  well  enough  ; 
she  has  had  sorrow,  she  has  two  children,  she  has  a 
gentle,  maternal  air.     But  you " 

He  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed  without  mirth. 

"  You  !  "  he  repeated.     "  My  God  !  " 

"  You  are  talking  very  foolishly,  Beauclerk.  Perhaps 
it  is  your  odd  way  of  making  yourself  agreeable.  It 
doesn't  please  me  a  bit  to  be  told  that  I  am  a  siren. 
My  mind  is  full  of  the  Bond  of  Association  and  your 
Meeting  at  St.  James's  Hall.  How  shamefully  Lord 
Cavernake  has  behaved,  but  dear  Lord  Gretingham  has 
come  out  well.  What  a  miserable  set  we  have  in  the 
Lords  just  now  !  " 

She  was  making  these  remarks  as  the  clock  struck  the 
hour,  and  her  father  entered  the  room. 

"  Beauclerk  came  early,  dear  papa,"  said  she,  "  be- 
cause he  had  something  to  tell  us.  His  engagement 
is  broken  off." 

Lord  Garrow  looked  the  grief  appropriate  to  the 
news,  and  disguised,  as  well  as  he  could,  his  dismay 
at  its  probable  development.  He  murmured,  "  Tut ! 
tut !  "  a  number  of  times,  held  up  his  hands,  and  nodded 
his  head  from  side  to  side. 

"  I  wish  nothing  said  against  poor  Agnes,"  observed 
Reckage  ;  "  her  mistakes  are  those  of  a  generous,  im- 
petuous girl.  Don't  judge  her  hastily.  All,  I  feel 
certain,  has  happened  for  the  best." 

"  Tut !  tut  !  "  repeated  his  lordship. 

"  I  am  devoted  to  dear  Agnes,"  said  Sara,  "  but  I  never, 
never  thought  that  she  was  the  wife  for  Beauclerk." 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  227 

Then  she  stepped  forward  to  greet  Lady  Augusta 
Hammit,  who  was  at  that  moment  announced.  Lady 
Augusta  was  a  tall  woman  about  thirty-five  years  of 
age,  with  a  handsome,  sallow  face,  a  superb  neck,  beau- 
tiful arms,  hair  the  colour  of  ashes,  pale  lips,  and  large, 
gleaming  white  teeth.  Unmarried,  aristocratic,  ordi- 
narily well-off,  and  exceptionally  pious  according  to  her 
lights,  she  was  a  prominent  figure  in  all  work  connected 
with  the  Moderate  Party  in  the  Church  of  England.  In 
her  opinion,  foreigners  might  be  permitted  the  idolatries 
of  Rome ;  as  for  the  English,  Wesley  was  a  lunatic  ; 
Pusey,  a  weak  good  creature  ;  Newman  was  a  traitor  ; 
Manning,  a  mistake.  The  one  vital  force  on  whom  she 
depended  for  her  spiritual  illumination  and  her  life's 
security  was  the  Rev,  Edwin  Pole-Knox.  "  Pole- 
Knox,"  she  said,  "  will  save  us  yet,"  This  good  and 
industrious  young  man,  a  few  years  her  junior,  had 
been  chaplain — mainly  through  Lady  Augusta's  de- 
voted exertions-— to  three  bishops.  He  did  every 
credit  to  his  patroness,  but  hints  were  already  in  the 
air  on  the  subject  of  ingratitude.  Some  said  he  lacked 
ambition  ;  others  murmured  dark  conjectures  about  his 
heartlessness.  It  was  left  to  the  Lady  Augusta's  fel- 
low-labourers in  the  sphere  of  beneficence  to  blurt  out, 
with  odious  vulgarity,  that  he  would  never  marry  her 
in  this  world.  She  entered  the  room  that  evening  in 
her  haughtiest  manner,  for  Pole-Knox  was  following 
close  upon  her  heels,  and  she  wished  to  justify  the  ex- 
treme deference  which  he  showed  her  so  properly  in 
public,  and  perhaps  with  morbid  conscientiousness  in 
tete-a-tete. 

"  I  don't  know  how  I  shall  get  through  the  winter," 
she  observed,  in  reply  to  Lord  Garrow's  inquiries  about 
her  health,  "  I  am  working  like  a  pack-horse,"  Here 
she  caught  Pole-Knox's  name  and  bowed  mechanically, 


228  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

without  seeing  him,  in  his  direction.  The  entire  after- 
noon they  had  been  looking  together  over  the  accounts 
of  a  Home  for  Female  Orphans,  and  poor  Lady  Au- 
gusta had  been  forced  to  see  that  whatever  fire  and  en- 
thusiasm her  prot^g^  could  display  in  tracking  down 
the  orphans'  dishonest  butcher,  his  respect  where  she 
was  concerned  verged  on  frigidity. 

Lady  Larch  was  the  next  arrival,  and  as  she  was  fa- 
mous for  her  smile,  she  used  it  freely,  not  fatiguing 
herself  by  listening  to  remarks,  or  making  them.  In 
her  youth  she  had  been  called  bonnie;  she  M^as  still 
pleasant  to  look  upon.  She  talked  very  little,  and 
perhaps  on  this  account  her  few  sayings  were  treasured, 
repeated  throughout  society,  and  much  esteemed. 
"  Surely  it  is  a  mistake  to  give  men  the  notion  that  all 
good  women  are  dull,"  was  one  of  her  classic  utter- 
ances. Another  ran,  "  Those  who  are  happy  do  not 
trouble  about  the  woes  of  the  woman  race."  Another, 
"The  Dissenters  belong  essentially  to  a  non-governing 
class — a  vulgar  class."  These  will  serve  to  show  the 
scope  of  her  observation  and  the  excellence  of  her  in- 
tentions. In  fact,  she  was  often  found  dull.  She  was 
not  especially  disturbed  about  the  woes  of  humanity, 
and  her  maternal  grandfather  had  been  a  Presbyterian 
cotton-merchant.  She  bore  Pole-Knox  away  to  a  far 
corner  and  begged  to  be  told  all  the  latest  details  of 
Miss  Carillon's  abominable  conduct. 

"  I  do  not  exactly  know,"  said  she,  "  the  state  of 
things.  The  poor  dear  Bishop  must  be  in  a  dreadful 
state." 

Orange  came  in  with  Aumerle  and  Hartley  Pen- 
borough.  Lady  Augusta,  who  was  a  kind,  sincere  wo- 
man, pressed  his  hand  warmly,  and  showed  with  her 
eyes  that  she  appreciated  the  difficulties  of  his  position. 
He  had  aged,  Sara  thought,  and  he  looked  as  though 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  229 

he  suffered  from    sleeplessness ;    otherwise,  in  manner 
and  in  all  ways,  he  was  just  as  he  had  always  been. 

Sara  looked  at  him,  and,  looking,  she  read  the  secret 
thoughts  in  his  mind.  Yes,  she  was  to  him,  no  doubt, 
the  undisciplined,  passionate  girl  who  lived  on  admira- 
tion, excitement,  and  false  romance.  He  owned  her 
beauty ;  he  excused  her  faults ;  he  liked  her.  Of  all 
this  she  was  certain.  Reckage's  warning  had  encour- 
aged her  to  believe  that  Orange's  self-control  was  a 
hard  achievement — by  no  means  any  matter  of  a  dis- 
position naturally  cold.  If  it  were  merely  to  be  a 
struggle  of  wills,  her  will  would  prove  the  stronger. 
She  meant  to  have  her  way  this  time.  Wasn't  it  the 
critical  moment  of  his  life?  Every  instinct  had  been 
roused — ambition,  the  love  of  adventure,  the  love  of  a 
woman.  For  a  short  while  the  means  had  been  given 
him,  humanly  speaking,  of  gratifying  these  great  pas- 
sions. And  then,  at  a  stroke,  he  was  once  more  poor 
and  dependent,  once  more  in  a  ridiculous  position, 
and  the  woman  he  loved  was  further  from  his  reach 
than  ever.  He  still  had  the  privilege  of  fighting  and 
breaking  his  heart  in  the  market-place.  He  could  still 
enjoy  some  kind  of  a  career.  Yet  the  long,  embitter- 
ing struggle  with  poverty  and  disappointed  affection 
could  but  appear  to  him  now  desolate  indeed,  barely 
worth  the  difficult  prizes  of  success.  Lady  Sara  was 
young,  and  she  made  the  mistake,  eternally  peculiar  to 
her  sex,  of  placing  love  first,  rather  than  last,  among 
the  forces  in  a  strong  nature.  No  powerful  being  ever 
yet  either  stood  by  the  glory,  or  fell  by  the  disasters, 
of  a  love-affair  alone,  uncomplicated  by  other  issues. 
It  does  its  work  :  it  must  touch,  in  many  ways,  the 
whole  character;  but  it  is,  in  the  essence  of  things,  a 
cause — not  an  effect.  To  Sara  there  was  one  only  con- 
suming  interest  in    life — love.     All    her  talents  were 


230  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

directed  to  the  gaining,  understanding,  and  keeping 
of  this  wonderful  human  mystery.  She  wanted  wild 
scenes  and  ungovernable  emotions  :  she  was  beautiful 
enough  to  figure  in  such  situations,  and  fascinating 
enough  to  indulge  in  such  crises  without  offence  to  the 
artistic  proprieties.  But  she  had  resolved  that  the  hero 
of  her  existence  must,  at  least,  look  his  part.  No  one 
denied  that  Orange  had  a  remarkable  personality. 
Every  one  admitted  that  he  was  clever.  These  were 
the  sternest  estimates  of  his  claim  to  social  recognition 
But  she  knew  him  to  be  a  de  Hausee.  She  thought 
him  superbly  handsome.  She  had  Disraeli's  opinion 
that  he  was  a  genius.  Here  was  a  case  where  love 
would  not  have  to  be  blind.  Love,  in  this  case,  could 
defy  the  scornful  and  the  proud.  At  last  she  could  say, 
"  My  fate ! "  and  call  the  whole  world  to  witness  her 
surrender.  "  Whether  he  loves  me,  or  whether  he 
hates  me,"  she  thought,  "  I  have  chosen  him."  Sinae- 
tha,  weaving  spells  by  the  moon,  was  not  more  deter- 
mined or  more  irretrievably  in  love  than  Sara.  The 
danger  of  such  wild  moods  is  as  attractive  to  the  very 
young  as  it  is  terrifying  to  the  more  mature.  Perfectly 
conscious  of  her  beauty,  she  felt  able  to  defy,  sue,  and 
conquer  at  the  same  moment.  Orange  had  never  seen 
her  to  such  brilliant  advantage.  The  instant  he  en- 
tered the  room  and  met  her  eyes,  which  shone  with  a 
most  touching  kind  of  timidity  and  a  most  flattering 
joy,  he  had  to  realise  the  need  of  strict  discipline  where 
constancy  is  a  rule  of  existence.  Sara's  laugh,  move- 
ments, way  of  talking,  played  a  good  deal  on  the  heart, 
but  even  more  upon  the  senses.  Brigit's  lovely  face 
gained  intensity  only  under  the  influence  of  sorrow. 
Then  it  became  human.  At  other  times  it  was  merely 
exquisite.  Now  Sara's  countenance  had  all  the  chang- 
ing qualities  of  nature   itself.     She  had,  too,  the  in- 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  231 

stinctive  arts  of  sympathy  which  are  so  much  rarer  than 
the  actual  gift.  Far  enough  was  Sara  from  the  triumph 
which  she  was  imagining  ;  far  enough  was  Orange  from 
the  least  disloyalty  ;  but  he  was  fully  alive  to  the  dan- 
ger of  regarding  her  as  a  woman  to  be  fought  against. 
To  fight  in  such  cases  is  to  admit  fear  of  conquest. 

"  Those  opals  are  beautiful,"  said  he,  presently. 

"  I  am  glad  you  approve  of — the  opals." 

"  But  you  put  them  to  a  disadvantage." 

"  O  !  is  that  a  compliment  ?  The  first  you  have  ever 
paid  me." 

"  Do  you  care  about  them  ?  " 

"  From  you,  yes.  I  was  reading  in  Saint-Simon's 
Memoirs  yesterday  that  your  ancestor — Charles  de 
Haus^e — was  the  first  swordsman,  the  bravest  soldier, 
the  hardest  rider,  and  the  best  judge  of  women  in 
France.  But  let  us  be  serious.  Lady  Larch  is  wearing 
her  brightest  smile  !  " 

''  Must  we  be  very  earnest  this  evening?  " 

**  I  am  afraid  so.  You  see,  I  have  secured  Pole-Knox. 
He  has  never  been  permitted  to  dine  here  before." 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

"  Because  I  once  told  Lady  Augusta  that  he  was  a 
man  for  the  shortest  part  of  the  afternoon — not  for 
evenings,  at  all.     She  couldn't  forgive  this." 

"  Does  she  forgive  it  now  ?  " 

"Yes.  She  has  reached  the  stage  when  one  may 
criticise  him." 

"  That  means  a  complete  cure,  I  suppose." 

"  Far  from  it — resignation  to  the  worst  that  can 
be  said  of  his  character.  There  is  no  cure  possible 
then." 

"  Have  you  had  any  conversation  with  Reckage  ?  " 
he  asked. 

Sara  coloured  and  put  her  fingers  to  her  lips. 


232  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

"  Hush  !  "  said  she.  *'  There's  a  deceptive  quiet 
about  him  which  puzzles  me.  But  I  don't  think  he  is 
sorry  to  be  rid  of  Agnes.  A  regiment  of  relatives 
drove  him  into  the  engagement.  Now  it  has  come  to 
an  end — let  us  thank  God  !  " 

"Your  own  conscience  is  easy,  I  take  it  ?  " 

"  You  have  no  right  to  ask  such  a  question — none  at 
all." 

"  Some  men,  you  know,  can  be  laughed  out  of  their 
loves,"  he  continued. 

"Timorous  men — yes  !     Is  Reckage  timorous?" 

"You  turned  that  most  adroitl)\" 

"Thank  you.  Please  sit  between  Lady  Augusta  and 
Aumerle  at  dinner." 

The  dinner  passed  most  agreeably.  As  little  as 
possible  was  said  about  the  Meeting;  each  talked  to 
his  or  her  neighbour,  and  although  the  separate  dia- 
logues may  have  been  profound,  the  general  effect 
produced  was  one  of  restful  flippancy.  Pole-Knox 
remarked  over  his  fish  that  England  had  little  to  fear — 
unless  through  the  corruption  of  her  religion,  where- 
upon Penborough  declared  that  religion  in  the  country 
was  a  School,  not  a  Church.  To  this  Lady  Augusta 
rejoined  that  Rome's  strength  depended  merely  on 
Canterbury's  weakness. 

"  Forcing  a  change  is  a  very  ticklish  business,"  said 
Aumerle,  studying  the  menu,  and  regretting  that  his 
digestion  was  not  all  it  had  been. 

Lord  Garrow  deplored  the  fact  that  Mr.  Gladstone 
had  embarked   on  a  very  vulgar  and  very  false  policy. 

"  But  its  vulgarity,"  he  sighed,  "  gives  it  a  very  easy 
reception." 

"  He  expects  everything  except  docility,"  said  Pen- 
borough  ;  "  if  the  Opposition  employ  that  means,  they 
will  embarrass  all  his  calculations." 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  233 

Reckage,  meanwhile,  was  confiding  to  Sara — 

"  I  turned  the  horse  round,  rammed  my  spurs  in,  and 
put  him  at  the  rails  again  ! " 

One  statement,  made  by  Penborough,  caused  a 
flutter. 

"  If  Catherine  of  Arragon  had  been  immoral  and 
Mary  Stuart  virtuous,  the  whole  course  of  European 
History  would  have  been  different.  The  Reformation, 
for  instance,  would  have  found  no  favour  in  England." 

"  That's  very  advanced,"  murmured  Lady  Larch. 

Sara,  at  dessert,  tried  to  encourage  a  debate  on  the 
egoism  of  the  Saints  compared  with  the  egoism  of 
Montaigne. 

"They  were  selfishly  bent  on  pain  and  renunciation, 
he  was  selfishly  bent  on  pleasure  and  indulgence. 
Isn't  that  the  one  difference  between  them,  Mr. 
Orange?" 

Orange  refused  to  be  drawn,  but  he  promised  to  lend 
her  the  Acta  Sanctorum  of  the  Bollandists  in  sixty 
volumes  in  folio. 

"After  you  have  read  them,"  said  he,  "  I  will  tell 
you  my  ideas  about  Montaigne." 

Many  other  remarks  were  probably  more  amusing; 
these,  however,  were  the  most  characteristic. 

When  dinner  was  ended,  Sara  and  the  two  ladies 
withdrew  to  the  drawing-room,  where  they  discussed 
with  the  utmost  vehemence  Orange's  illegal  marriage 
and  Reckage's  broken  engagement. 

The  sum  and  substance  of  their  investigations  were 
as  follows  : — 

Lady  Larch  wondered  what  the  world  was  coming  to. 

Lady  Augusta  declared  that  no  woman  yet  ever 
fathomed  the  heart  of  man. 

Lady  Sara  maintained  that  it  was  a  very  good  thing 
for  both  young  men  to  have  had  such  reverses  before 
they  finally  settled  down. 


234  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

At  this  Lady  Augusta  forgot  to  sigh,  and  Lady 
Larch  lost  control  of  her  smile. 

"  How,"  exclaimed  Augusta,  "  can  they  forget  so 
soon?  Can  any  settling  down  be  in  contemplation? 
Are  no  deep,  sacred  feelings  left  ?  " 

Emmeline  Larch,  who  was  a  widow,  said  she  would 
never  be  hard  on  any  one  who  tried  to  recover,  for  the 
sake  of  others,  from  a  shattering  bereavement. 

"  Dear  Lady  Larch  ! "  exclaimed  Sara. 

The  three  women  formed  a  picturesque  group  round 
the  fireplace  as  the  men  entered.  But  the  card-tables 
were  already  placed,  and  Sara  lost  no  time  in  arranging 
a  quartette  for  whist,  Penborough  had  to  leave  for 
the  Times  ofifice.  Pole-Knox  had  to  hurry  back  to 
Fulham.  The  young  lady,  who  was  known  to  detest 
all  games,  was  thus  able  to  choose  Robert  for  her  part- 
ner in  a  short  conversation. 

"Forgive  me,"  said  she,  "but — have  you  anything 
to  tell  me  about  Mrs.  Parfletc  ?  " 

"Yes;  she  is  now  with  Pens6e." 

"  May  I  call  upon  her?  May  I  know  her?  Would 
she  see  me  ?  " 

"  With  pleasure,  I  am  sure." 

"  And  you  ?  "  she  asked. 

"I  don't  see  her,"  he  said  quietly;  "  I  don't  hear 
from  her.  I  don't  write  to  her.  And — I  don't  talk 
about  her.  But  I  should  like  you  to  know  her.  She 
needs  true  friends — who  understand." 

"  Have  you  been  to  Prince  d'Alchingen's,  or  has  he 
approached  you  in  any  way  ?  " 

"  I  am  to  dine  with  him  to-morrow." 

"  Has  he  said  anything  to  you  about  the  Marquis  of 
Castrillon  ?  " 

"  Not  a  word,"  replied  Robert,  in  surprise :  "  why 
should  he?  " 


ROBERT  ORANGE,  235 

"  I  believe  there  is  mischief  in  the  air.  Be  careful, 
won't  you  ?  Reckage  is  watching  us.  I  think  he 
would  like  some  music.      He  is  so  triste  this  evening." 

She  moved  away,  and  played  delightfully  on  the 
guitar  until  the  guests  rose  to  leave.  Then  she  found 
an  opportunity  to  tell  Lord  Reckage  not  to  comeback 
again.  She  was  tired,  she  said,  and  her  papa  would 
think  it  too  odd. 

"  Then  to-morrow  morning,"  said  he. 

She  named  an  hour. 


336  ROBERT  ORANGE. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

Robert,  on  leaving  the  house,  drove  to  Grosvenor 
Gate,  where  he  had  an  appointment  with  Disraeli.  The 
ex-Minister  was  sitting,  in  a  flowered  dressing-gown,  by 
the  library  fire.  The  blinds  were  not  drawn,  for  the 
night  was  bright  and  starry;  the  moonlight  streamed 
into  the  room,  mingling  strangely  with  the  soft  glow  of 
the  green-shaded  lamp.  There  was  a  large  bundle  of 
documents  on  the  table  by  Disraeli's  side,  and  a  pile  of 
Continental  newspapers  on  the  floor.  One  of  the  latter 
he  was  reading,  and,  by  the  slight  curl  of  his  mouth 
and  the  gleam  in  his  fine  eyes.  Orange  saw  that  he  was 
working  out,  to  his  amusement,  some  train  of  thought 
which  gave  full  jurisdiction  to  his  knowledge  of 
humanity. 

"  Bismarck,"  said  he,  "  is  the  first  German  statesman 
who  has  not  regarded  newspapers  as  inconvenient  lum- 
ber. He  wishes  the  Press  to  advance  his  great  ideas 
by  assuming  the  place  of  the  Universities  in  training 
public  opinion,  and  the  place  of  the  Church  in  controll- 
ing it.  He  might  as  well  strive  to  make  the  horse  into 
the  lion,  the  mule  into  the  unicorn,  a  parrot  into  the 
soaring  eagle  !  Any  man  who  is  written  up  into  a  place 
can  be  written  down  out  of  it.  Our  friend  will  learn 
this  too  late — probably  about  the  time  that  we,  in  Eng- 
land, are  adopting,  with  enthusiasm,  his  present  error. 
Ah,  my  dear  Orange,  watch  the  sky  and  you  will  learn 
the  hearts  of  men.  Observe  the  changing  light,  the 
clouds  driven  by  the  wind,  the  glimpses  of  pure  blue^ 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  237 

the  sudden  blackness,  the  startling  brilliancy,  and  then 
— the  monotonous  grey.  They  seem  too  hard  for  me 
at  times.  The  clash  between  ideas  and  interests  makes 
our  inheritance  a  grim  battlefield,  and  there  are  mo- 
ments of  mortification  when  one  may  feel  tempted  to 
sell  it — not  for  a  mess  of  pottage,  but  for  \.\\t promise  of 
a  mess  of  pottage.  Tempted,  I  said.  There  is  always 
a  course  left,  if  you  have  the  courage  to  face  it.  It 
may  avail  you  ;  I  cannot  insure  you  even  that.  But 
if  I  were  in  your  place,  I  would  try." 

"  I  could  never  do  better,  sir,  than  to  follow  your 
advice  or  your  example." 

"  Never  betray,  then,  the  least  depression  at  disap- 
pointments or  reverses,  but  seize  the  few  joyful  occa- 
sions of  life  for  the  indulgence  of  any  accumulated 
melancholy  and  bitterness.  By  this  simple  rule  you 
will  escape  the  charge  urged  against  all  the  ambitious, 
who  are  usually  as  intoxicated  by  success  as  they  are 
cowardly  in  adversity.  It  delights  me  to  see  you  in 
high  spirits.  Tell  me  the  news,  but  first  give  me  your 
opinion  of  this  little  paragraph  which  will  appear  in  to- 
morrow's Times!' 

He  took  from  his  pocket-book  a  slip  of  paper  on 
which  was  written  the  following  in  Mrs.  Disraeli's 
hand : — 

"  Mr.  Orange,  the  new  Member  for  Norbet  Royal,  is 
the  son  of  a  French  nobleman  of  very  ancient  lineage. 
It  was  a  condition  of  his  adoption  by  the  late  Admiral 
Bertin  that  his  own  name  should  be  dropped,  and  he 
has  accordingly  always  borne  that  of  the  Orange  family. 
The  circumstances  of  his  birth  were  communicated  to 
the  Queen  before  his  naturalisation  as  a  British  subject, 
and  his  presentation,  by  Mr.  Disraeli,  at  Court." 

"  Was  that  necessary?"  asked  Robert. 

"  A  public  man  must  speak  out,  and  this  expedient 


238  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

occurred  to  me  as  a  slight  pull  in  your  favour.  The 
two  things  in  life  which  are  really  gratuitous  are  the 
grace  of  God  and  one's  pedigree  !  The  rest  depends 
upon  ourselves.  Now  you  can't  think  how  much  I  am 
interested  in  every  little  detail  of  your  mental  experi- 
ences. I  believe  you  will  be  a  Jesuit  yet.  I  have 
never  concealed  my  respect  for  the  Jesuits,  When 
Spain  and  France  expelled  the  Society  of  Jesus,  they 
persecuted  their  truest  allies,  A  terrible  price,  too, 
they  paid  for  that  crime.  You  see,  then,  that  I  under- 
stand staunch  Catholics.  If  I  could  rouse  an  Imperial 
feeling  in  England  which  would  at  all  correspond  with 
the  feeling  of  Catholics  for  their  Church  !  Sometimes 
I  dream  this  may  be  possible.  Pope,  the  satirist,  re- 
mained, in  spite  of  his  wit,  a  loyal  son  of  the  Faith, 
while  many  dull  worthies  who  shuddered  at  his  epi- 
grams were  recanting  daily  either  from  fear  or  for  some 
worldly  advantage.  In  the  same  way,  Robert,  men 
who  hate  my  novels  because  they  contain  a  few  truths, 
would  sell  England,  if  they  could,  to-morrow.  I  men- 
tioned the  fact  about  Pope  to  a  gentleman  who  com- 
plains that  you  are  by  no  means  typical  of  your  co- 
religionists in  this  country." 

"  The  very  expression  '  typical  Catholic  '  is  a  para- 
dox," replied  Robert,  who  always  accepted  adverse 
criticism  with  good  humour ;  "  there  is  one  Spirit,  but 
it  has  many  manifestations.  From  the  apostles,  saints 
and  martyrs  to  the  rank  and  file,  we  have  to  recognise 
the  individuality  of  each  soul.  In  fact,  sir,  is  not  that 
the  very  essence  of  the  Church's  teaching?  " 

"  So  I  have  always  understood.  And  we  have  not 
heard  the  last  of  the  '  law  of  liberty ' ;  although  I  observe 
to  my  chagrin  that  many  modern  Papists  depart  from 
those  great  principles  which  they  should  take  every 
opportunity  of  claiming  as  their  own.     In  the  freezing 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  239 

snows  of  the  world's  solitude,  a  prudent  man  does  not 
try  to  make  himself  happy,  but  he  is  less  than  a  man  if 
he  allows  others  to  make  him  wretched.  The  flesh  has 
its  discomfort  :  the  spirit,  however,  has  its  illimitable 
conjectures.  When  all  else  fails  me,  I  may  still  find 
solace  in  conjectures.  Does  it  strike  you  that  they 
may  have,  nevertheless,  a  danger  also  ?  " 

"  This  is  your  own  way  of  asking  me  whether  I  know 
my  own  mind  !  If  you  mean.  Have  I  put  all  sentiment 
resolutely  from  my  thoughts,  Yes.  If  you  mean.  Have 
I  determined  to  continue  in  m.y  present  line  till  I  have 
a  call  to  some  other  vocation.  Yes." 

His  heart  was  troubled,  full  of  vague  combinations. 
The  events  of  the  day  had  seemed  mechanical,  foolish 
— a  course  of  sorrowful  attempting  and  self-reproach. 

"  Both  of  your  afifirmatives  are  satisfactory,"  said 
Disraeli ;  "  you  are,  I  see,  what  the  Americans  call  a 
•  whole-hog  man.'  Now  let  us  consider  ways  and  means. 
I  saw  Prince  d'Alchingen  this  afternoon.  He  announces 
the  increased  distress  and  reformation  of  Parflete.  We 
must  therefore  prepare  for  further  villainy.  Mrs.  Par- 
flete has  confided  to  d'Alchingen  her  desire  to  go  on 
the  stage.  He  encourages  this  ambition,  and  she  has 
accepted  his  invitation  to  Hadley  Lodge,  where  she  will 
recite  in  his  private  sa//e  de  comedies 

Robert,  though  much  taken  by  surprise,  betrayed  no 
sign  of  it. 

"You  cannot  tell  what  she  will  do — until  she  does 
it,"  he  answered.     "  She  may  have  great  talents." 

"Well,  one  forgets  that  when  Voltaire  said,  ' II faut 
cultiver  notre  jardin,'  he  was  quoting,  with  sardonic 
irony,  Saint  Teresa  !  You  cannot  be  pleased  at  Mrs. 
Parflete's  decision.  The  theatre  in  England  is  a  sport — 
not  an  art.  In  France  it  is  an  art,  but,"  he  added  drily, 
"  it  embraces  more  than  one  profession." 


240  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

"  Whether  a  woman  be  a  saint,  a  queen,  or  an  actress 
— once  before  the  public — she  is  exposed  to  severe  dis-^ 
cipline.  And  I  don't  fear  for  this  one.  She  will  take 
her  revenge  on  life  by  laughing  at  it." 

"  I  daresay.  D'Alchingen  calls  her  un  peu  ^tourdi. 
She  has  the  audacity — she  may  have  the  fortune  of 
despair.  Confess — you  have  run  a  little  wild  about 
her." 

"  I  ran  off  the  track,  if  you  like,"  said  Orange, 
smiling. 

"  Women  fascinate  the  hearts,  but  they  do  not  affect 
the  destinies  of  determined  men,"  returned  Disraeli. 
"  If  you  have  not  won  anything  by  this  affair,  it  would 
be  hard  to  say  what  winning  is.  There  is  but  one  feel- 
ing and  one  opinion  about  the  really  courageous  stand 
you  have  made." 

"  I  must  gain  confidence  all  the  same  in  my  own 
ability  to  keep  my  resolves  when  they  are  clear  to  me. 
I  once  prided  myself  in  that  ability  as  the  one  gem  in 
my  character." 

"  You  may  laugh  at  yourself  as  much  as  you  please. 
Beauty  is  as  well  worth  admiring  as  anything  on  earth, 
and  the  world  is  better  lost  for  love,  than  love  for  the 
world.  At  least,  let  us  say  so.  I  met  Reckage  at  the 
Travellers'  yesterday,  and  had  some  talk  with  him 
about  his  Association.  I  think  it  far  better  that  Au- 
merle  should  not  resign,  as  he  could,  and  probably 
would,  be  very  mischievous  as  a  free-lance.  Reckage  is 
all  for  shaking  him  off,  but  these  things,  in  any  circum- 
stances, should  never  be  forced." 

"  I  advised  Reckage  myself  to  sound  each  member 
of  the  Committee  privately.  Then,  at  the  general 
meeting,  he  could  form  some  just  estimate  of  the 
difificulties  in  his  way,  and  in  their  way." 

"  Reckage,  though  a  mean  fellow,  might  give  you  an 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  241 

opportunity  to  work  a  strong  Sub-Committee,"  sug- 
gested Disraeli.  "  One  cannot  calculate  on  the  course 
of  a  man  so  variable  and  impulsive.  He  proposes  to 
get  rid  of  Aumerle,  and  make  concessions  to  his  set. 
It  is  an  unhappy  policy,  and  always  unhappily  applied, 
to  imagine  that  men  can  be  reconciled  by  partial  con- 
cessions. I  attribute  much  of  Reckage's  behaviour  to 
his  fear  of  society.  Society  itself,  however,  does  not 
practice  any  of  the  virtues  which  it  demands  from  the 
individual.  It  ridicules  the  highest  motives,  and  de- 
grades the  most  heroic  achievements.  It  is  fed  with 
emotions  and  spectacles:  it  cries,  laughs,  and  condemns 
without  knowledge  and  without  enthusiasm.  Pitiable 
indeed  is  the  politician  who  makes  society  his  moral 
barometer." 

"  I  have  urged  him  to  be  firm.  Christianity  was 
never  yet  at  peace  with  its  age.  There  is  no  other 
Faith  whose  first  teacher  was  persecuted  and  crucified. 
Viewed  solely'^  a  point  of  administration,  it  is  dis- 
astrous to  cut  religious  thought  according  to  the 
fashionable  pattern  of  the  hour.  This  has  been  the 
constant  weakness  of  English  Churchmen.  They  try 
to  match  eternity  with  the  times." 

"  My  opinion  is  that  Reckage  must  act  with  con- 
siderable caution,  or  he  will  find  himself  repudiated  by 
every  party.  The  English  like  a  fellow  to  stand  by 
his  guns.  I  come  now  to  your  own  business.  Will 
you  do  me  a  favour?  Before  you  reply  let  me  define 
it.  I  have  been  asked  to  send  some  good  speaker  to 
Hanborough.  The  occasion  is  the  opening  of  a  Free 
Library.  Remarks — of  a  laudatory  nature — on  the 
princely  munificence  of  Hanborough's  mayor,  Han- 
borough's  corporation,  Hanborough's  leading  citizens, 
a  eulogy  of  their  public  glories  and  private  virtues — 
with    a    little   thrown   in    about    Shakespeare,  Scott, 


242  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

and  the  Lord-Lieutenant  of  the  county — would  be 
adequately  appreciated.  The  attendance  will  be  large  : 
the  nobility,  gentry,  and  clergy  of  the  neighbourhood 
will  flower  about  you  on  the  platform  ;  a  banquet  will 
follow  in  the  evening,  and  in  the  morning  blushing 
girls  will  hand  you  bouquets  at  the  railway  station. 
Can  you  refuse  ?  " 

"  Not  easily,  I  admit,"  said  Robert,  laughing  ;  "  but 
Reckage  is  rather  low  and  unhappy  just  now  about  his 
broken  engagement.  Wouldn't  such  an  adventure  as 
this  take  him  out  of  himself?" 

"  This  is  not  an  adventure — this  is  an  opportunity," 
said  Disraeli ;  "  it  would  be  nursed  into  a  stepping- 
stone.  I  know  fifty  men  who  are  worrying  themselves 
to  death  to  get  it." 

"You  need  not  tell  me  that,"  replied  Robert,  with 
gratitude.  "  It  would  be  a  great  thing  for  me.  But 
Reckage  is  always  at  his  best  in  functions  of  the  kind. 
Hanborough  might  make  much  of  him,  and  then  his 
Association  would  feel  flattered  by  reflected  hon- 
ours." 

"You  invariably  set  your  face  against  your  own  ad- 
vantages, and  I  am  afraid  I  shall  not  live  to  see  you 
where  you  ought  to  be.  However,  Reckage  shall  have 
the  invitation.  Now,  good-night.  By  the  by,  have 
you  heard  that  Castrillon  is  now  in  the  marriage- 
market?  His  mistress  has  given  her  consent,  and  the 
Prince  has  promised  his  blessing.  Could  things  look 
more  auspicious?     Good-night." 

For  the  second  time  that  evening  Castrillon's  name 
fell  with  a  warning  note  on  Robert's  ear.  Disraeli,  he 
knew,  would  not  have  mentioned  him  out  of  sheer  idle- 
ness. There  was  some  danger  threatening  in  that 
quarter,  and  it  was  impossible  to  dissociate  this  from 
Brigit.     The  Marquis  of  Castrillon  had  been  with  her 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  243 

in  Madrid,  and  also  at  Baron  Zeuill's  palace  after  the 
escape  from  Loadilla. 

"  Where  is  Castrillon  now  ?  "  asked  Robert. 

"  I  understand  he  is  in  London,"  answered  Disraeli ; 
"at  Claridge's  Hotel.  D'Alchingen  and  he  are  on  ex- 
cellent terms." 

"  Good  !  "  said  Robert,  tightening  his  lips.  "  You 
will  find  he  has  been  invited  to  Hadley." 

"  I  haven't  a  doubt  of  it." 

"  Then  I  must  contrive  to  see  him  first." 

Early  the  following  morning  Orange  presented  him- 
self at  the  house  of  an  old,  very  devout  priest  of  his 
acquaintance. 

"  Father,"  said  he,  "  this  afternoon  or  to-morrow  I 
may  be  in  circumstances  of  danger." 

"  What  danger  is  this,"  asked  the  priest. 

"  There  is  a  man  whom  I  may  be  compelled,  in  de- 
fence of  my  honour,  to  challenge  to  a  duel." 

"  To  approach  the  Sacrament  in  such  a  frame  of 
mind,"  said  the  old  man,  "  is  not  to  prepare  yourself 
for  danger.  For  to  come  to  confession  with  a  deter- 
mination of  taking  vengeance  is  to  put  an  obstacle  to 
the  grace  of  the  Sacrament.  You  must  preserve  your 
honour  by  some  other  way.  Indeed,  the  honour  you 
think  to  preserve  by  this  is  not  real  honour,  but  merely 
the  estimation  of  bad  men  founded  on  bad  principles." 

"  I  know,"  said  Orange,  hotly ;  "  it  is  impossible, 
however,  to  withdraw  now." 

"  If  you  should  be  beaten,"  returned  the  other,  who 
had  been  in  the  army  himself  as  a  youth,  and  could 
comprehend  the  worldly  view  of  the  situation,  "  if  you 
should  be  beaten,  what  becomes  of  the  honour  you 
wish  to  defend  ?  And  if  you  should  be  killed  in  that 
state  of  soul  in  which  you  go  to  the  duel,  you  will  go 
straight  to  hell  and  everlasting  shame." 


244  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

"  I  implore  you,  Father,  to  pray  for  me,  and  to  hear 
my  confession,  if  you  possibly  can." 

"  Certainly,  I  cannot  hear  you,"  said  the  priest. 
"  But  this  is  what  I  will  do.  Wear  this  Agnus  Dei,  and 
perhaps  God  will  have  mercy  on  you  for  the  sake  of 
this,  and  afford  you  time  for  penance.  Understand, 
however,  I  do  not  give  it  to  you  in  order  to  encourage 
you  in  your  bad  purpose,  but  that  you  may  wear  it 
with  all  reverence  and  respect,  and  perhaps  be  moved 
to  obedience." 

Robert  thanked  him,  accepting  the  gift  in  a  right 
spirit.  His  self-will,  however,  was  aroused.  He  had 
determined  to  fight  Castrillon,  and  fight  he  would. 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  245 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

Sara  awoke  that  same  morning  with  a  foreboding 
heart.  She  wrote  a  letter  to  Reckage  postponing  his 
call,  and  another  to  Pensee  Fitz  Rewes,  asking  her  to 
be  at  home  that  afternoon.  At  half-past  two  the  young 
lady  drove  up,  in  her  brougham,  to  the  widow's  door 
in  Curzon  Street.  The  blinds  were  down,  and  the  house 
gave  every  indication  that  its  owner  was  not  in  London. 
Sara,  however,  was  admitted,  and  Pensee  received  her 
in  a  little  room,  hung  with  lilac  chintz  and  full  of  porce- 
lain, at  the  back  of  the  house.  Pensee,  wearing  a  loose 
blue  robe,  seemed  over-excited  and  sad — with  that  sad- 
ness which  seems  to  fall  upon  the  soul  as  snow  upon 
water.  She  was  reclining  on  the  sofa,  reading  a 
worn  copy  of  Law's  Serious  Call  which  had  belonged 
to  the  late  Viscount,  and  bore  many  of  his  pencil-marks. 
This  in  itself  was  to  Sara  a  sign  of  some  unusual  melan- 
choly in  her  friend. 

"  Why,"  she  said,  kissing  her  soft,  pale  cheek,  "  why 
didn't  you  let  me  know  that  you  had  returned?  I 
thought  you  were  still  in  Paris?  " 

"  My  dear,"  said  Pensee,  sitting  up  with  a  sudden 
movement  and  supporting  herself  on  her  two  hands. 
"  I  am  no  longer  my  own  mistress.  I  have  become  a 
puppet — a  marionette  ;  a  kind  of  lady-in-waiting — a 
person  to  whom  women  talk  when  they  have  nothing 
to  say,  and  to  whom  men  talk  when  they  have  nothing 
to  do." 

Sara  chose  a  seat  and  studied  the  speaker  with  a  new 


246  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

curiosity.  She  was  charming  ;  vexation  gave  humanity 
to  her  waxen  features,  and  the  flash  in  her  eyes  sug- 
gested hitherto  unsuspected  fires  in  her  temperament. 
"  She  has  more  spirit  than  I  gave  her  credit  for," 
thought  Sara,  and  she  added,  "  Darling  !"  aloud. 

'*  Darling,  indeed  !  "  said  Pensee.  "  I  can  tell  you  I 
am  tired  of  being  a  darling.  There  are  limits.  ...  I 
have  no  patience  with  Brigit,  and  Robert  drives  me  to 
the  conclusion  that  good  men  are  fools — fools !  I  sup- 
pose he  told  you  that  I  was  in  town  again  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  he  won't  come  and  see  me  himself  because 
s/ii^  is  here." 

"  That  is  merely  a  decision  on  principle.  He  longs 
to  come." 

"Quite  so.     But  the  girl  does  not  deserve  him." 

Sara  showed  no  astonishment ;  she  maintained  her 
thoughtful  air,  and  replied  with  tranquillity — 

"  He  thinks  she  is  perfect." 

"  I  find  no  vulgar  faults  in  her,  myself,  although 
there  seems  no  foolish  thing  left  that  she  hasn't  done. 
I  am  sure  that  every  one  will  think  her  light,  worldly, 
and  frivolous.  Let  me  say  what  I  have  been  through. 
After  the  first  terrible  day  and  night  at  St.  Malo,  there 
was  no  more  crying.  There  was  not  another  tear.  We 
went  to  Paris.  She  spent  all  her  mornings  at  Notre 
Dame,  all  her  afternoons  with  old  Monsieur  Lanitaux 
of  the  Conservatoire,  all  her  evenings  at  the  theatre. 
She  found  many  of  her  mother's  old  friends.  In  the 
theatrical  world  I  find  much  loyalty  toward  those  act- 
ually born  in  the  profession.  They  treated  her  as 
though  she  were  a  young  queen,  Lanitaux  managed 
to  get  her  privately  before  the  Empress  Eugenie.  She 
sang  for  the  Empress  :  the  Empress  cried  and  gave  her 
an  emerald  ring." 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  247 

"  Then  she  has  talent." 

"  Genius,  I  believe,"  said  Pens^e,  solemnly.  "  This 
makes  her  hateful  and  lovable  at  the  same  moment. 
She  is  determined  to  be  an  actress.  She  never  speaks 
of  Robert,  and  she  shuts  herself  up  in  her  room  recit- 
ing Marivaux  and  Moliere.  The  d'Alchingens  have 
invited  her  to  Hadley  next  Saturday.  They  encourage 
her  theatrical  ideas.  And  why  ?  They  wish  her  to 
lose  caste.  She  is  an  Archduchess,  Sara,  an  Alberian 
Archduchess.  What  a  living  argument  against  unequal 
marriages  ! " 

"Will  she  go  to  Hadley?" 

"Yes — wholly  against  my  advice.  I  don't  trust 
Prince  d'Alchingen." 

"  How  I  wish  I  could  see  her  !  " 

"  She  is  in  the  library  now.  I  will  ask  her  to  come 
down." 

Pensee  left  the  room,  and  Sara  paced  the  floor  till 
she  returned. 

"  She  is  coming,"  said  Pensde,  "  be  nice  to  her — for 
Robert's  sake !  " 

Sara  nodded,  and  both  women  watched  the  door  till 
the  handle  moved,  and  Mrs.  Parflete  entered. 

She  was  dressed  in  violet  silk  without  ornaments 
or  jewels  of  any  description.  Her  face  was  slightly 
flushed,  and  the  colour  intensified  the  pale  gold  diadem 
of  her  blonde  hair.  The  expression — sweet-tempered, 
yet  a  little  arrogant — of  her  countenance  and  its  long 
oval  form  bore  a  striking  resemblance  to  the  early  por- 
traits of  Marie  Antoinette.  Her  under-lip  had  also  a 
slight  outward  bend,  which  seemed  an  encouragement 
when  she  smiled,  and  contemptuous  when  she  frowned. 
Her  figure — though  too  slight  even  for  a  girl  of  seven- 
teen— was  extraordinarily  graceful,  and,  in  spite  of  her 
height,  she  was  so  well  proportioned  that  she  did  not 


248  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

appear  too  tall.  Youth  showed  itself,  however,  in  a 
certain  childlikeness  of  demeanour — a  mixture  of  tim- 
idity, confidence,  embarrassment,  and,  if  one  looked 
in  her  face  for  any  sign  of  the  emotions  she  had  ex- 
perienced, or  the  scenes  in  which  she  had  played  no 
feeble  part,  one  sought  in  vain.  Gaiety  covered  the 
melancholy,  almost  sombre  depths  in  her  character. 
And  it  was  the  gaiety  of  her  French  mother — petulant, 
reckless,  irresistible,  giddy,  uncertain.  As  a  child, 
dressed  up  in  ribbons  and  lace,  with  flowers  in  her  hair, 
she  had  been  the  chief  amusement  and  plaything  of 
Madame  Duboc — to  be  held  on  her  lap,  perched  upon 
the  piano,  placed  on  high  cushions  in  the  carriage,  and 
lifted  on  the  table  of  the  drawing-room,  where  she  en- 
tertained a  brilliant,  if  dissipated  company,  by  her  talk, 
her  little  songs,  her  laughter,  her  mimicry,  and  her 
dancing.  She  rarely  danced  now,  yet  all  the  seductive 
arts  of  perfect  dancing  seemed  hers  by  right  of  birth. 
Each  movement,  each  gesture  had  a  peculiar  charm, 
and  her  dark  blue  eyes,  the  more  provocative  for  their 
lack  of  passion,  were  full  of  a  half-mocking,  half-tender 
vivacity.  Sara,  a  beautiful  young  woman  herself,  sur- 
veyed this  unconscious  rival  and  recognised,  with  good 
sense,  a  fatal  attractiveness  which  was  stronger  than 
time  and  far  above  beauty.  It  was  the  spell  of  a  spirit 
and  body  planned  for  fascination  and  excelling  in  this 
indefinable  power.  Had  she  been  born  to  ruin  men? 
thought  Sara.  Had  she  been  given  a  glamour  and 
certain  gifts  merely  to  perplex,  deceive,  and  destroy  all 
those  who  came  within  the  magic  of  her  glance?  His- 
tory had  its  long,  terrible  catalogue  of  such  women 
whose  words  are  now  forgotten,  whose  portraits  leave 
us  cold,  yet  whose  very  names  still  agitate  the  heart  and 
fire  the  imagination.     Was  Brigit  one  of  these? 

She   had    nothing  of  the   deliberate   coquette  who, 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  249 

eager  to  please,  keeps  up  an  incessant  battery  of  airs 
and  graces.  Her  enchantments  depended  rather  on 
the  fact  that  she  neither  asked  for  admiration  nor 
valued  it.  Free  from  vanity,  and  therefore  indifferent 
to  criticism,  the  bitternesses  which  destroy  the  peace  of 
most  women  never  entered  her  mind.  The  man  she 
had  chosen  gave  her  no  cause  for  jealousy,  and,  while 
she  enjoyed  men's  society,  she  had  been  so  accustomed 
to  it  from  her  earliest  days  that  she  had  nothing  to  fear 
from  the  novelty  of  their  friendship,  or  the  danger  of 
their  compliments.  Not  prudish,  not  morbid,  not  en- 
vious, not  sentimental,  and  not  indolent,  she  was 
perhaps  especially  endowed  for  the  tantalising  career 
which  the  stage  offers  to  the  ambitious  of  both  sexes. 
Acting  came  to  her  as  music  comes  to  the  true  musician. 
She  never  considered  whether  she  would  become  a 
great  actress  or  a  rejected  one  :  the  art  in  itself  was 
her  delight,  and  she  found  more  happiness  in  reciting 
Moliere  and  Shakespeare  alone  in  her  own  room  than 
she  ever  received,  even  at  the  height  of  her  fame,  from 
her  triumphs  before  the  world.  There  was,  no  doubt, 
a  great  craving  in  her  nature  for  innocent  pleasures 
and  excitement.  She  loved  gay  scenes,  bright  lights, 
beautiful  clothes,  lively  music,  witty  conversation.  She 
had  been  born  for  the  brilliant  Courts  of  the  eighteenth 
century  when  life  in  each  class  was  more  highly  con- 
centrated than  is  possible  now — when  love  was  put  to 
severer  tests,  hatred  permitted  a  crueller  play,  politics 
asked  a  more  intricate  genius,  and  art  controlled  the 
kingdom  of  the  Graces. 

The  three  women  as  they  faced  each  other  presented 
a  remarkable  picture.  Pensee,  the  eldest,  who  alone 
knew  the  lessons  of  physical  pain,  had  a  pathetic  grace 
which  made  her  seem,  in  comparison  with  the  others 
— radiant  with  untried  health, — some  gentle,  plaintive 


250  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

spirit  from  a  sadder  sphere.  Her  clinging  blue  robe 
appeared  too  heavy  for  the  frail  body  ;  her  fair  curls 
and  carefully  arranged  cJiigiion  were  too  modish  for 
the  ethereal  yet  anxious  countenance ;  the  massive 
wedding-ring  seemed  too  coarse  a  bond  for  the  almost 
transparent  hand  which  trembled  nervously  on  the 
cover  of  the  Serious  Call.  Sara,  in  black  velvet  and 
sable,  with  ostrich  plumes  and  golden  beads,  with 
flashing  eyes  and  a  gipsy's  fiush,  with  all  the  self- 
command  of  a  woman  trained  for  society,  living  for 
it  and  .in  it,  with  all  the  self-assurance  of  a  woman  in 
an  unassailable  position,  handsome,  rich,  flattered, 
spoiled,  domineering,  and  unscrupulous,  with  all  the 
insolence  of  an  egoism  which  no  human  force  could 
humiliate  and  no  human  antagonist  terrify,  Sara  seemed 
the  one  who  was  destined  to  succeed  superbly  in  the 
war  of  life.  Mrs.  Parflete — whose  courage,  determina- 
tion, and  powers  of  endurance  were  concealed  by  a 
face  which  might  have  been  made  of  lovely  gauze — 
seemed  less  a  being  than  a  poetical  creation  :  a 
portrait  by  Watteau  or  Fragonard  stepped  from  its 
frame,  animated  by  pure  fancy,  and  moving,  without 
sorrow  and  without  labour,  through  a  charmed  existence. 

She  made  two  steps  forward  when  Sara  advanced  to 
meet  her,  holding  out  both  hands  and  smiling  with 
real  kindness  at  the  sight  of  a  delightful  apparition 
which  looked  too  fragile  to  excite  such  a  fierce  emotion 
as  jealousy. 

"  I  believe  we  are  to  meet  at  Hadley,"  said  Sara. 
"  I  hear  you  are  going  to  act." 

"  Yes,"  replied  Brigit,  with  a  slight  note  of  irony 
in  her  musical  voice.     "  I  am  going  to  act." 

"  How  charming!     And  what  will  you  play?  " 

"  I  play  the  Marquise  in  one  of  Mariveaux's 
comedies." 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  251 

"  And  who  will  play  the  Marquis?  "  asked  Sara, 

"  There  is  no  Marquis,"  answered  Brigit,  laughing  a 
little.  "  But,"  she  added,  "  there  is  a  Chevalier  and  a 
Comte.  One  of  Prince  d'Alchingen's  attaches  will 
play  the  Comte.  M.  de  Castrillon  will  play  the  part 
of  the  Chevalier." 

"  Castrillon  !  "  exclaimed  Sara,  in  amazement. 

"  The  Marquis  of  Castrillon  !  "  cried  Pensee,  turn- 
ing livid ;  "  pray,  pray  put  it  off  till  you  have  heard 
from  Baron  Zeuill.  Dear  Brigit !  for  my  sake,  for 
Robert's " 

"  It  is  for  your  sake  and  Robert's  that  I  have  ac- 
cepted  the  invitation  to   Hadley.     I  wish  you  would 

understand.     I  must  show  them  all  that  I  mean  what 

I>» 
say. 

"  But  Castrillon  is  a  wicked  wretch — a  libertine." 

"  We  have  already  acted  together  in  this  very  piece 
at  Madrid.  Much  depends  on  my  playing  well  next 
Saturday.  I  am  quite  sure  of  his  talent,  and,  in  such 
a  case,  his  private  morals  are  not  my  affair.  He  is  no 
worse  than  Prince  d'Alchingen  was,  and  most  of  his 
associates  are." 

"  You  can't  know  what  you  are  saying,"  answered 
Pensee.  "  You  will  be  so  miserable  when  you  find  you 
have  been  madly  obstinate.  It  is  very  hard,  in  a 
country  like  England,  for  a  young  woman  to  set  her- 
self in  opposition  to  certain  prejudices." 

"Are  the  Duke  and  Duchess  of  Fortinbras  respect- 
able ?  "  asked  Brigit. 

"  What  a  question  !  "  said  Pensee;  "of  course  they 
are  most  exclusive." 

"  Then  if  they  are  quite  willing  that  their  daughter 
Clementine  should  marry  Castrillon,  surely  he  may 
play  the  Chevalier  to  my  Marquise." 

"  I  don't  think,  Pensee,"  put  in  Sara,  "  that  Castrillon 


252  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

is  exactly  tabooed.  In  fact,  one  meets  him  every- 
where in  Paris,  and,  beyond  a  doubt,  the  Fortinbrases 
and  the  Huxaters  and  the  Kentons  made  a  great  fuss 
over  him  last  season.  But  do  you  like  him?"  she 
said,  suddenly  turning  to  Brigit. 

The  question  was  skilful. 

"  I  don't  take  him  seriously,"  answered  Brigit ;  "  he 
has  the  great  science  of  V excellent  ton  dans  le  mauvais 
ton.  You  would  say — '  he  is  vulgar  in  the  right  way.' 
I  feel  sure  he  never  deceived  women.  They  may  have 
been  foolish  but  they  must  have  been  frail  before  they 
met  him  !  He  can  be  ridiculous  in  five  languages,  but 
he  cannot  be  sincere  in  one  of  them.  As  for  his  wick- 
edness, one  must  have  more  than  bad  intentions ;  one 
must  have  the  circumstances.  I  have  nothing  to  fear 
from  M.  de  Castrillon,     He  knows  me  perfectly  well." 

"  I  am  simply  wretched  about  you,"  said  Pens6e; 
"  of  your  future  I  dare  not  think.  I  try  to  be  synipa- 
thique,  and  your  difficulties  come  very  home  to  me 
because  I  have  had  such  great  sorrows  myself.  But  I 
have  little  hopes  of  doing  any  good  while  you  are  so 
self-willed." 

"  Dearest,"  exclaimed  Brigit  :  "  trust  me  !  " 

"  My  child,  you  are  *  wiser  in  your  own  eyes  than 
seven  men  that  can  render  a  reason.'  I  implore  you  to 
abandon  this  mad  scheme  ;  I  implore  you  to  abandon 
these  wrong — these  dangerous  ideas  of  the  stage.  I 
know  how  much  I  am  asking,  and  how  little  right  I 
have  to  ask  anything,  but  I  think  you  ought  to  listen 
to  me." 

Brigit,  with  a  sparkling  glance  at  Sara,  stroked 
Pens^e's  cheek,  and  pinched  her  small  ear. 

"  Mon  cher  coeur^'  said  she,  "  I  do  not  forget  your 
goodness.  And  I  needed  it,  for  I  have  been  so 
wretched  and    forsaken.     My  soul   is  weighed    down 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  253 

with  troubles,  and  grief,  and  anxiety :  each  day  I 
expect  some  new  misfortune :  you  are  the  one  friend 
I  may  keep.  But  you  would  not  know  how  to  imagine 
the  intrigues  and  falsehoods  which  surround  me  on 
every  side.  O  vwn  amie,  I  must  prove  to  them  that  I 
want  nothing  they  can  give  me — that  I  possess  nothing 
which  they  can  take  away." 

"  I  know  what  she  means,  Pens^e,"  said  Sara  ;  "  she 
has  to  show  d'Alchingen  that  her  interests  are  fixed  on 
art — not  politics.  And,  from  her  point  of  view,  she  is 
right.  I  must  say  so,  although  I  don't  wish  to  inter- 
fere. And  so  long  as  she  knows  M.  de  Castrillon,  it 
is  better  taste  to  make  her  first  appearance  with  him 
than  with  some  strange  actor  engaged  for  the  occasion. 
After  all,  Mario  was  well  known  as  the  Marchese  di 
Candia  before  he  adopted  the  operatic  stage  as  a  pro- 
fession. As  for  gossip,  how  is  anybody's  tongue  to  be 
stopped?  " 

"  I  do  not  expect  that  people's  tongues  should  be 
stopped,"  rejoined  Pens^e. 

"  What  the  world  says  of  me  I  have  learned  to  dis- 
regard very  much,"  said  Brigit :  "if  I  vex  my  friends, 
I  must  nevertheless  follow  my  vocation.  It  was  good 
enough  for  my  mother.  I  do  not  apologise  for  her 
existence,  nor  do  I  offer  excuses  for  my  own.  She  was 
an  actress :  I  am  an  actress.  She  succeeded :  I  may 
not  succeed.  But  if  you  fear  for  my  faith  and  my 
character,  it  would  be  quite  as  easy  to  lose  both  in  the 
highest  society  as  in  the  vilest  theatres !  I  foresee 
mistakes  and  difficulties.  They  must  come.  I  shan't 
have  a  happy  life,  dearest  Pensee  :  I  don't  look  for 
happiness.     Why  then  do  you  scold  me?" 

"I  am  not  scolding,"  said  Lady  Fitz  Rewes:  "I 
have  never  blamed  you,  never — in  my  heart.  We  shall 
get  on  better  now  that  we  have  brought  ourselves  to 


254  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

speak  out:  How  different  it  is  when  one  judges  for 
oneself  or  for  another  !  I  do  believe  in  having  the 
courage  of  one's  convictions.  But  it  was  my  duty  to 
warn  you- 


"  This  is  all  I  wanted,"  exclaimed  Brigit ;  "  that  we 
should  understand  each  other  and  stand  close  by  each 
other.  I  am  not  on  the  edge  of  a  precipice— I  am  at 
the  bottom  of  it  already  !  "  Her  eyes  had  grown  calm 
from  the  mere  force  of  sadness.  "  You  mustn't  ask 
me  to  look  back,"  she  added  :  "  you  mustn't  ask  me  to 
choose  again.  A  simple,  quiet  life  is  out  of  the  ques- 
tion now.     I  have  to  learn  how  to  forget." 

She  moved  to  the  door,  kissed  her  hand  to  Pensee, 
and  bowed  prettily  to  Sara. 

"  I  must  get  back  to  my  work,"  she  said,  and  so 
left    them.     The    two    women    turned    toward    each 

other. 

"  There  is  no  hope  for  Orange,"  observed  Sara  drily  : 
"  no  man  would  ever  forget  her." 

"  He  needn't  forget  her,  but " 

"Yes,  it  would  have  to  be  sheer,  absolute  forget- 
fulness.  I  like  her.  I  like  all  beautiful  things- 
pictures,  statues,  bronzes,  porcelains,  and  white  marble 
visions !  She  is  a  white  marble  vision.  And  Orange 
will  love  her  forever  and  ever  and  ever.  And  when  she 
is  dead,  he  will  love  her  still  more !  " 

She  threw  back  her  head  and  laughed — till  Pens6e 
laughed  also.  Then  they  wished  each  other  good-bye, 
and  parted. 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  255 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

When  Sara  reached  home,  she  was  dismayed  to  hear 
that  Lord  Reckage  had  called  during  her  absence  and 
was  waiting  for  her  return.  The  prospect  of  an  inter- 
view with  him  seemed  so  disagreeable  that  she  walked 
first  to  the  library,  and  sat  there  alone,  for  some 
moments,  before  she  could  summon  the  presence  of 
mind  which  every  sense  warned  her  would  be  required 
for  the  ordeal.  At  last,  with  a  pinched  heart,  she  went 
up  the  great  staircase,  and  found  Reckage  writing 
at  her  own  table  in  the  drawing-room.  He  turned 
quickly,  and  jumped  to  his  feet  at  the  rustle  of  her 
dress.  He  was  looking  unusually  handsome,  she 
thought,  very  animated,  very  dashing. 

"You  will  forgive  these  clothes,"  said  he,  "  but  I 
have  ordered  Pluto  round  at  four  o'clock,  and  I  am 
going  for  a  long  ride." 

"What  a  strange  idea!"  she  answered,  taking  off 
her  gloves.     "  Where  are  you  going?  " 

"  To  Hampstead  Heath.  I  need  the  air  and  the 
exercise.     I  have  to  compose  a  speech." 

"  The  speech  for  the  Meeting?  " 

His  brow  darkened,  and  he  pushed  back  with  his 
foot  a  log  which  was  falling  from  the  open  grate. 

"  No,  not  that  speech.  Another.  Disraeli  has 
asked  me  to  go  in  his  stead  to  Hanborough.  I  don't 
like  to  attach  over-importance  to  the  invitation,  but 
he  must  mean  it  as  an  encouragement.  Evidently,  he 
wishes  to  show  that  Aumerle  and  the  rest  are  without 


256  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

any  shadow  of  right  in  their  attacks.  I  have  been 
above  five  years  working  up  this  society,  and  if,  at  the 
end  of  that  time,  I  am  president  only  by  dint  of 
family  interest,  be  assured  the  situation  cannot  be 
worth  having.  When  I  leave,  it  will  go  all  to 
pieces." 

"  But  you  don't  intend  to  leave,  surely?" 

"  Indeed,  I  do." 

"  Have  you  hinted  at  resignation  ?  " 

"  No,  I  shan't  hint.  Hints  belong  to  the  uncon- 
sidered patience  of  fools.  I  won't  give  them  an  inkling 
of  my  real  tactics.  Let  them  lollop  along  in  their 
own  wretched  fashion  to  some  final  imbecility !  I 
have  other  matters  to  think  of,  Sara.  Doesn't  Disraeli's 
action  say,  as  delicately  as  possible,  that  I  am  wasting 
my  time  over  small  men  ?  I  have  been  altogether  too 
easy  of  access.  Simplicity  and  consideration  are 
thrown  away  on  the  Snookses  and  the  Pawkinses ! 
With  these  gentry,  one  must  be  a  vulgar,  bragging 
snob,  or  they  think  one  is  not  worth  knowing." 

"  But  you  owe  it  to  yourself  and  to  Orange  to  hold 
the  Meeting  to-morrow?  "  she  said  anxiously. 

"  There  is  a  way  out  of  it,"  he  answered,  avoiding 
her  eyes.     "  We  can  talk  of  that  presently." 

"  Nothing  interests  me  more." 

"  That  is  not  true,"  he  said,  taking  a  chair  near  her; 
*'  there  are  many  things  which  must  interest  both  of 
us  much,  much  more  than  that  stupid  Meeting." 

"  I  prefer  not  to  speak  of  them  now,  Beauclerk." 

"  I  can't  go  on  in  this  uncertainty.  I  am  beginning 
to  think  I  am  a  blundering  fellow — where  women  are 
concerned.  When  we  were  together  as  children,  I 
seem  to  remember,  looking  back,  that  I  always  did 
the  wrong  thing.  And  later — when  you  came  out 
and   I  fancied  myself  a  man  of   the  world,  it  was  the 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  357 

same.  I  don't  know  exactly  what  a  girl  is  at  eighteen, 
but  I  know  that  a  fellow  of  twenty-five  is  an  ass. 
He  is  probably  well  meaning :  he  isn't  hardened  by 
ambition  and  he  is  pretty  sentimental,  as  a  rule.  Yet 
he  doesn't  have  fixed  ideas.  One  day  it  dawned  upon 
me  that  I  was  in  love." 

"  Now  don't  say  that." 

"  I  repeat  it.  I  am  far  from  wishing  to  pose  as  a 
martyr,  but  whenever  one  is  happy,  all  one's  friends 
think  that  one  is  going  to  make  some  fatal  mistake. 
I  suppose  no  battle  can  be  won  without  a  battle.  But 
life  has  always  had  a  good  deal  of  painfulness  to  me, 
and  I  hate  opposition.  It  isn't  lack  of  courage  on  my 
part — I  can  fight  an  enemy  to  the  death.  When  it 
comes  to  quarrelling  with  relatives  or  those  I  care  about 
— well  I  own  I  can  seldom  see  good  reasons  for  keep- 
ing a  stiff  neck." 

"  I  am  perfectly  convinced  of  your  spirit,  Beauclerk ; 
every  circumstance  serves  to  show  it.  There  was  never 
a  time  when  you  did  the  wrong  thing — in  my  judg- 
ment." 

"  You  are  generous,  but  I  dare  not  believe  you 
there.  Much  that  I  did  and  all  that  I  left  unsaid  must 
have  puzzled  you.  I  wouldn't  speak  now,  Sara,  if  I 
didn't  feel  sure  that  in  spite  of  my  faults,  my  stupidity, 
my  want  of  self-knowledge,  you  saw  that  I  was  des- 
tined to  love  you." 

It  was  impossible  to  deny  this  fact.  She  had  been 
well  aware  always  of  his  affection,  and  the  certainty 
had  given  a  peculiar  emotional  value  to  every  scene — 
no  matter  how  commonplace — to  every  occasion,  no 
matter  how  crowded,  to  every  conversation,  no  matter 
how  trivial — in  which  he  figured  or  his  name  transpired. 
He  and  poor  Marshire  were  the  two  men  in  the 
world  who  really  loved  her.  Marshire  was  the  more 
17 


258  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

desperate  because  he  was  less  intelligent  and  had  fewer 
interests;  Reckage loved  her  with  all  the  force  of  a 
selfish,  vain,  and  spoiled  nature.  Such  a  passion  she 
knew  was  not  specially  noble  and  certainly  not  ideal. 
But  it  was  strong,  and  it  made  him  submissive. 

"  Sara,"  he  said,  "you  have  got  to  help  me."  He  put 
his  arm  round  her  waist,  and  as  she  inclined  her  face 
ever  so  slightly  toward  his,  he  kissed  her  cheek. 

"  How  can  I  help  you  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Let  us  marry.  " 

"  I  don't  wish  to  marry  any  one  just  yet,  Beauclerk," 
she  said  ;  "  I  like  my  liberty.  I  don't  feel  that  I  should 
make  either  a  good  wife,  or  a  contented  one,  as  I  am 
now.  I  want  to  see  more  and  think  more  before  I 
give  up  my  will  to  another." 

"  I  would  not  ask  you  to  give  up  your  will.* 

"  We  should  be  utterly  miserable  if  I  didn't." 

"  Believe  me,  it  is  the  weak,  effeminate  creature  who 
wishes  to  control  women.  Men  of  character  respect 
women  of  character.  These  fellows  who  declare  that 
they  will  be  masters  in  their  own  house  are  masters 
nowhere  else.  I  delight  in  your  spirit.  Orange  and  I 
have  often  agreed,"  he  added,  with  a  searching  look, 
"  that  you  are  the  most  brilliant  girl  in  England." 

"  Why  do  you  quote  Robert  ?  "  she  said  carelessly  ; 
"  isn't  your  opinion  enough  for  me  ?  " 

"  Can  you  pretend  that  his  opinion  has  no  weight 
with  you  ?  " 

She  laughed,  and  stroked  his  arm. 

"  My  dear,  why  should  I  pretend  anything  ?  To 
tell  the  truth,  I  am  surprised  that  Orange  has  noticed 
me.  I  saw  Mrs.  Parflete  to-day.  I  understand  his  in- 
fatuation." 

"  I  have  always  told  you  that  she  was  a  very  pretty 
woman.     But  why  is  it  that,  no  matter  where  we  start, 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  259 

we  always  come  back  to  Orange  ?  I  am  getting  sick 
of  him.  I  dislike  being  affich^,  as  it  were,  to  some  one 
else.  This  marriage  of  his  pursues  me.  If  I  go  into  a 
club,  if  I  dine,  if  I  ride,  if  I  walk — ten  to  one  if  I  am 
not  pelted  with  questions  about  Mrs.  Parflete,  or  Rob- 
ert's history,  or  his  genius,  or  his  future  plans.  I  must 
drop  him." 

"  Drop  him  ?  "  she  exclaimed. 

"  Yes.  It  doesn't  help  me  to  appear  so  friendly 
with  a  Roman.  I  know  he  is  very  fine,  but  I  have  to 
consider  my  own  position.  They  all  say  that  it  would 
be  madness  to  take  the  chair  now  at  his  meeting." 
"But  it  \v3.s your  meeting,  Beauclerk." 
"  In  the  first  place,  perhaps.  I  thought,  too,  it 
might  be  a  good,  independent  move.  Disraeli's  invita- 
tion to  Hanboroughputs  another  complexion  on  affairs. 
It  is  the  first  formal  recognition  that  he,  as  Leader,  has 
ever  given  me.  It  is  a  reminder  of  my  responsibilities. 
He  is  fond  of  Orange,  I  know,  and  he  wouldn't  hurt 
his  feelings,  or  seem  to  put  a  spoke  in  his  wheel,  for  all 
the  world.  But  Dizzy  is  subtle.  Helikes  to  test  one's 
savoir  vivreT 

"  Shall  you  tell  Orange  that  you  intend   to  throw 
him  over?  " 
"  Not  yet." 
"  Oh,  you  ought !  " 

"  Why  ?  I  want  the  meeting  to  take  place.  It  will 
be  useful  in  its  way — it  may  show  us  how  public 
opinion  is  going." 

Sara  hid  her  contempt  by  rising  from  her  chair  and 
removing  her  hat.  Reckage  watched  the  play  of  her 
arms  as  she  stood  before  the  mirror,  and  he  did  not  see, 
as  she  could,  the  reflection  of  his  face — sensual,  calcu- 
lating, and,  stormed  as  it  was  for  the  moment  by  the 
meanest  feelings  of  self-interest,  repellant. 


26o  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

"  How  I  hate  him  !  "  she  thought ;  "  how  I  despise 
him !  " 

Then  she  turned  round,  smiling — 

"  Hats  make  my  head  ache  !  So  you  think  the  meet- 
ing will  be  useful?  " 

"  Emphatically.  It  did  occur  to  me  that  I  might 
drop  a  line  to  Robert — in  fact,  I  was  writing  to  him 
when  you  came  in.  Here's  the  letter,  as  you  see,  signed 
and  sealed." 

"  Do  send  it." 

"  No,"  he  answered,  putting  it  back  into  his  pocket  ; 
"one  could  only  get  him  on  the  platform  just  now  by 
making  him  believe  that  such  an  action  would,  in  some 
way,  help  me.     You  don't  know  Robert." 

"  I  daresay  not,  but  I  know  that  much." 

"  This  being  the  case,  why  upset  him  at  the  eleventh 
hour?" 

She  made  no  reply,  and  before  Reckage  could 
speak  again,  the  servant  announced  the  arrival  of  his 
horse. 

"  I  intend  to  ride  like  the  devil,  Sara,"  he  said ; 
"  and  I  wish  you  could  come  with  me.  What  rides 
we  used  to  have — long  ago  !  You  were  a  larky  little 
thing  in  those  days,  darling !  " 

He  bent  down  and  kissed  her  lips. 

"  You  shall  marry  me — or  no  one,"  said  he  ;  "  but 
you  are  cold  :  you  are  not  very  nice  to  me.  I  suppose 
it's  your  way.  You  wouldn't  be  yourself  if  you  were 
like  other  women.  You  are  not  a  woman,  you're  a 
witch.     Must  I  go  now  ?  " 

Sara  had  opened  the  door. 

"  Yes,  you  know  how  Pluto  hates  to  wait." 

"  That  animal  will  be  the  death  of  me  yet.  Will  you 
stand  on  the  balcony  and  watch  me  till  I  am  out  of 
sight  ?     Have  pretty  manners — for  once." 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  361 

'•  Very  well." 

She  went  on  to  the  balcony,  watched  him  mount, 
and  ride  away.  He  turned  several  times  to  gaze  back 
at  her  picturesque  figure,  dim,  but  to  him  lovely,  in  the 
gathering  dusk. 


262  ROBERT  ORANGE. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

Robert,  after  his  interview  with  the  priest,  returned 
to  his  old  lodgings  in  a  top  floor  of  Vigo  Street — for 
he  had  left  Almouth  House,  where  Reckage's  hospital- 
ity, kind  as  it  was,  suited  neither  his  pride  nor  his 
mood.  He  was  greatly  in  debt,  and  although  his  salary 
from  Lord  Wight  and  his  literary  earnings  represented 
a  sure  income,  it  stood  at  what  he  called  the  "  early 
hundreds."  The  tastes,  habits,  and  pursuits  of  those 
with  whom  he  spent  his  time  were  delightful,  no  doubt, 
but  they  were  costly.  A  box  at  the  play,  the  cricket- 
match  party,  little  dinners,  and  a  rubber  of  whist,  or  a 
quiet  game  of  vingt-et-un  ;  the  lunches  here,  the  sup- 
pers there ;  the  country  houses  where,  in  the  winter, 
one  could  dine  and  sleep  and  hunt  the  next  day,  and, 
in  the  autumn,  shoot,  and,  in  the  summer,  flirt  ;  the 
attendance  at  race-meetings,  balls,  and  weddings ; 
journeys  to  the  Continent,  civilities  everywhere, — in 
fact,  the  whole  business  of  society — no  matter  how 
modestly  done — demands  money.  Most  young  men 
are  naturally  fond  of  brilliant,  light-hearted  companions, 
plenty  of  amusement,  and  that  indescribable  treasure 
known  as  \\iQ.  joie  de  vivre.  Orange  was  no  exception 
to  this  rule,  and  there  were  many  hours  when  he  tasted 
the  bitterness  of  poverty,  and  felt  the  harsh  differences 
between  the  outward  gifts  bestowed  by  Fate.  It  was 
not  that  he  cared  for  luxuries,  but  it  seemed  hard  that 
a  horse  should  have  to  be  counted  among  them,  and 
that  it  was  necessary  to  work  for  twelve  hours  a  day  in 
order  to  live  at  all,  even  as  a  dependent,  among  those 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  263 

with  whom  he  was,  by  right  of  birth  and  ability,  the 
equal,  and  to  whom  he  was,  in  many  cases,  the  supe- 
rior. How  many  promising  careers  and  brave  hearts 
have  fallen  short  under  the  strain  of  a  position  so  mor- 
tifying and  apparently  so  unjust  !  In  public  life, 
whether  one  joins  the  Church,  the  Camp,  the  Senate, 
or  the  Arts,  the  trials  of  strength  and  courage  are  most 
severe  even  to  those  who,  in  material  circumstances  at 
any  rate,  are  favourites  of  fortune.  Neither  influence 
nor  riches  avail  much  in  the  terrific  struggles  for  suprem- 
acy, for  recognition,  for  mere  fair  play  itself.  What 
must  the  conflict  be  then  for  those  who,  with  slight 
purses  and  few  allies,  find  themselves  pitted  against  the 
powerful  of  the  earth  ?  Discouragement,  in  weak  na- 
tures, soon  turns  to  envy,  and  the  spectacle  of  human 
unkindness  has  driven  many  a  reflective,  delicate  soul 
to  say  that  the  companionship  of  his  fellow-men  is  un- 
lovely, not  to  be  admired,  and  difUcult,  at  times,  not  to 
hate.  In  disgust  of  the  world — where  one  has  been 
wounded,  or  where  one  has  wounded  others — (wounded 
vanity  and  remorse  are  alike  bitter  in  their  fruits),  num- 
bers, with  a  sort  of  despairing  fatalism,  retire  from  the 
campaign,  cut  themselves  adrift  from  their  people  and 
their  country,  and,  having  failed  in  life,  court  death 
under  strange  skies  in  far-off  lands.  Robert,  who 
looked  rather  for  the  triumph  of  ideas  than  the  glory 
of  individuals,  was  not  easily  dismayed.  So  long  as 
the  right  was  by  some  means  accomplished,  and  good 
seeds  brought  forth  a  good  harvest, — the  burden  and 
heat  of  the  day,  the  changes  of  weather,  the  scantiness 
of  the  wage,  the  ingratitude  and  treachery  of  agents, 
the  hardships,  the  toil — mattered  little  enough.  De- 
voured by  ambition  in  his  early  youth,  he  had  never 
permitted  himself  the  least  doubtful  means  of  attaining 
any  object.     He  was  not  obliged,  therefore,  to  affect 


264  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

an  indifference  to  success  in  order  to  divert  attention 
from  his  methods  of  arriving  at  it.  No  man,  once  bent 
upon  a  project,  could  be  more  resolute  than  Orange. 
None  were  more  stern  in  self-repression  and  self-disci- 
pline. But  in  controlling,  or  subduing  altogether,  the 
softer  possibilities  in  a  character,  there  is  always  the 
danger  lest  uncharitableness,  hardness  of  heart,  or  blind 
severity  of  judgment  should  take  their  place.  Young 
people  with  strong  natures  can  seldom  find  the  middle 
course  between  extremes,  and  this  one,  in  curbing  a 
desire  for  power,  will  fairly  crush  his  whole  vigour, 
while  that  one,  in  revolt  against  the  tyranny  of  love, 
will  become  the  slave  of  pessimism.  There  were  days, 
no  doubt,  and  weeks  when  Orange  found  every  coun- 
sel, a  mockery,  and  every  law,  a  paradox.  The  strife 
between  the  flesh  and  the  spirit  went  on  in  his  life  as 
it  does  in  all  lives,  but  he  was  one  who  held,  that, 
whatever  the  issue  of  it  all  might  be,  a  man  must  be  a 
man  while  he  may — losing  himself  neither  in  the  whirl 
of  passion  nor  in  the  enervating  worlds  of  reverie,  but 
accepting  the  fulness  of  existence — its  pains,  vanities, 
pleasures,  cares,  sorrows, — with  a  fighter's  courage  and 
the  fortitude  of  an  immortal  soul. 

As  he  walked  along  toward  Vigo  Street  in  the  cold, 
dark  autumn  morning,  he  felt  more  than  able  to  hold 
his  own  against  all  adversaries.  And  this  was  not 
the  insolence  of  conceit,  but  the  just  strength  which 
comes  from  a  vigorous  conscience  and  perfect  health. 
A  soldier  counts  it  no  shame,  but  rather  an  honour, 
to  die  in  battle,  so  Robert,  surveying  the  chances 
before  him,  stood  determined,  in  every  event,  to 
endure  until  the  end,  to  fight  until  the  end,  to 
maintain  his  ground  until  the  end.  But  if  he  had 
put  sentiment  from  his  path,  it  was  not  so  easily 
weeded  from  his  constitution,  and  while  he  was  able 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  265 

to  persuade  himself  that  his  renunciation  of  all 
passionate  love — except  as  a  bitter-sweet  memory — 
was  complete,  he  had  to  realise  that  the  old  grudge 
against  Castrillon  had  grown  into  a  formidable, 
unquenchable,  over-mastering  hatred.  Where  this 
strange  obsession  was  concerned,  no  religious  or  other 
consideration  availed  in  the  least.  Bit  by  bit,  hour  by 
hour,  the  feeling  had  grown,  deriving  vigour  from  every 
source,  every  allusion,  and  every  experience.  The 
books  he  read,  the  conversations  he  heard,  the  people  he 
met — all  seemed  to  illuminate  and  justify,  in  some 
mysterious  way,  his  enmity  against  Castrillon.  He 
may  have  believed  that  he  was  resigned  to  his  ill-luck 
in  love,  but  a  sense  that  he  had  been  defrauded  haunted 
his  thoughts  always,  and  the  longing  to  square  his 
account  with  destiny  was  less  a  wish  than  a  mute 
instinct.  How  great  had  been  the  temptation  to  defy 
all  laws — human  and  Divine — where  Brigit  Parflete  was 
in  question,  no  one  can  know.  In  getting  the  better  of 
it,  the  motive  had  not  been,  it  must  be  confessed,  the 
fear  of  punishment  here  or  hereafter.  This  would  not 
be  a  true  history,  nor  a  reasonable  one,  if  it  were  not 
acknowledged  that  much  of  the  victory  in  that  situation 
had  been  due  to  the  woman's  youth  and  candid,  sunny 
nature.  No  passion — far  less  a  guilty  one — he  thought, 
could  have  had  a  place  in  that  childhke  heart.  She 
was  Pompilia — not  Juliet,  because,  like  the  more  ill- 
starred  heroine,  she  had  met  sorrow  before  she  met  love, 
and  the  strong  emotion  which  comes  first  in  a  young 
life  makes  the  deep,  the  ineffaceable  impression  on  its 
character.  She  had  the  strength  to  suffer  undeserved 
woe,  but  the  penalties  of  defiance  and  disobedience 
would  surely  kill  her.  The  thought  of  any  desperate 
step  seemed  impossible. 

The  question  of  love  at  that  point  in  Orange's  life 


266  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

had  therefore  been  decided  as  much  by  conditions  as  it 
had  by  principles  and  conscience.  But  with  the  Cas- 
trillon  difficulty,  it  was  a  question  of  hatred — not  love. 
In  hate,  Orange  was  as  little  given  to  brooding  as  he 
was  in  other  matters.  He  had  never  been  able  to  for- 
give the  duel  at  Loadilla  which  had  occasioned  so  much 
scandal  in  Madrid,  and  brought  Brigit's  name  into  bad 
company.  Robert,  before  his  meeting  with  Mrs.  Par- 
flete,  had  fought  several  duels,  and  each  of  them  about 
a  different  pretty  face.  Encounters  of  the  kind  form 
part  of  a  youth's  education  on  the  Continent  :  such  ex- 
periences are  considered  not  romantic,  not  heroic,  not 
striking,  but  merely  usual  and  manly.  It  was  impos- 
sible for  one  brought  up  in  this  view  to  feel  that  duel- 
ling— under  certain  provocation  and  fair  conditions — 
was  wrong.  The  custom  was  frequently  abused,  no 
doubt,  yet  the  same  could  be  said  of  all  customs,  and 
Orange,  rightly  or  wrongly,  held  a  conviction  on  the 
subject  which  no  argument  could  affect.  But,  with  a 
lover's  unreasonableness,  he  had  found  the  fight  be- 
tween Bodava  and  Castrillon  an  insult  to  the  lady  at 
stake.  He  suspected,  too,  that  Castrillon  had  spoken 
lightly  of  her  to  General  Prim,  to  Zeuill,  perhaps  to 
d'Alchingen.  This  was  insufTerable,  and  so,  inasmuch 
as  the  mischief  had  been  done,  he  would  not  and  could 
not  remain  outside  the  combat.  There  seemed,  also,  a 
certain  feeling  at  the  Clubs  where  the  Madrid  scandal 
had  become  known,  that  Castrillon,  on  the  whole,  had 
proved  a  more  dashing,  and  was  probably  the  favoured, 
suitor.  Orange,  whose  personal  courage  had  been 
demonstrated  too  often  to  be  called  into  doubt,  had 
been  criticised  for  an  absence  of  moral,  or  rather  im- 
moral, courage  with  regard  to  Mrs.  Parflete.  Reckage's 
sly  phrases  about  the  ecclesiastical  temperament  ;  the 
sneers  of  some  adventurous  women  on  the  subject  of 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  267 

platonic  affection  ;  the  good-natured  brow-lifting  of  the 
wits  and  the  worldly  were  not  easy  to  bear  for  a  man 
who  was,  by  nature,  impulsive,  by  nature,  regardless  of 
every  sacrifice  and  all  opinions  while  a  strong  purpose 
remained  unfulfilled.  Robert  made  up  his  mind  that, 
come  what  might,  whether  his  action  was  approved  or 
blamed,  or  whether  he  won  or  lost,  pick  some  quarrel 
he  would,  and  see  how  Castrillon  liked  it,  and  thus 
settle  the  matter  then  and  for  always.  Castrillon  had 
received  a  military  training;  he  was  a  most  adroit 
swordsman  and  a  notorious  shot ;  he  would  not  be  one 
to  make  a  quarrel  difficult. 

When  Orange  reached  the  house  in  Vigo  Street,  it 
was  still  early  in  the  day.  As  he  mounted  the  stairs, 
he  noticed  a  fellow-lodger,  still  in  his  evening  clothes, 
entering  a  room  on  the  second  floor.  He  did  not  see 
the  man's  face,  but  he  was  struck  by  something  familiar 
in  his  build.  This  impression  was  not  haunting,  it 
passed  almost  immediately,  and  the  young  man  settled 
down  with  resolution  to  his  work.  At  one  o'clock  he 
went  to  Brookes's,  had  his  lunch,  met  a  few  acquaint- 
ances who  studied  his  face  with  curiosity,  and  a  few 
colleagues  who  tried  to  persuade  each  other  that  he  was 
a  man  who  could  play  a  deep  game.  He  returned  to 
his  rooms  and  resumed  work  till  about  six  o'clock, 
when  his  landlord  informed  him  that  a  lady,  who  would 
not  give  her  name,  wished  to  see  him.  The  lady  was 
tall,  handsomely  dressed,  darkly  veiled.  What,  he 
thought,  if  it  should  be  Brigit  ?  What  joy  !  What 
rashness  !  Robert  went  out  into  the  hall  to  meet  the 
strange  visitor.  She  made  a  gesture  signifying  silence, 
and,  on  greeting  her,  he  did  not  utter  her  name.  It 
was  Lady  Sara. 

She  did  not  speak  until  she  had  entered  the  shabbily 
furnished  sitting-room  and  closed  the  door. 


368  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

"  This  is  a  mad  thing  on  my  part,"  she  said  ;  "  a  mad 
thing.  I  know  it.  Of  course,  I  might  have  asked  you 
to  come  to  me,  but  I  couldn't  wait  so  long.  And  I 
don't  trust  letters.  Some  news  can't  be  written.  It  is 
not  about  Mrs.  Parflete,"  she  added,  hastily,  "  you 
need  not  fear  that.  It  is  about  Beauclerk.  He  came 
to  see  me  this  afternoon.  He  is  going  to  throw  you 
over.  He  is  going  to  fail  you  at  the  Meeting.  You  are 
to  test  public  opinion  whi4e  he  sits  under  shelter — to 
profit  by  your  experience.  What  do  you  think  of  that  ?  " 

"  You  are  very  good  to  come.  But  I  hope  you  are 
mistaken  all  the  same.  He  may  throw  me  over.  I  am 
sure  he  will  send  me  a  word  of  warning." 

"  That  was  his  first  intention.  He  gave  it  up,  be- 
cause he  knew  you  wouldn't  act  without  him.  And  he 
wants  you  to  act — for  the  reason  I  have  given.  Oh, 
I'm  so  ashamed,  so  humiliated  to  think  that  any  friend 
of  mine  could  be  such  a  traitor." 

She  unpinned  her  veil,  and  seemed  all  the  handsomer 
for  her  scornful  expression  and  flashing  eyes. 

"  You  must  be  the  first  to  retire,"  she  continued.  "  I 
won't  have  you  treated  in  this  contemptuous  way :  I 
won't  endure  it.  I  want  you  to  write  to  the  Committee 
at  once — at  once — without  a  moment's  loss  of  time. 
This  is  why  I  have  come  here  myself.  You  seem  to 
have  something  in  you  which  they  take  for  weakness. 
You  will  stand  anything.  Oh,  I  know  why  well  enough. 
You  like  to  be  a  martyr — which  means  saying  nothing 
and  suffering  a  good  deal.  But  I  call  it  a  mistake.  I 
call  it  irritating,  misleading,  actually  wrong.  If  I  were 
a  man  I  would  kill  people." 

"  It  is  easy  enough  to  kill." 

"  So  they  say.  Be  more  unscrupulous,  dear  friend. 
Give  your  nature  full  play  now  and  again.  You  can't 
make  me  believe  that  you  are  ever  natural." 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  269 

"  Some  can  trust  their  natures.     I  don't  trust  mine." 

*'  Don't  you  see  how  much  more  power  you  would 
have  over  men  if  you  were  more  emotional,  more  spon- 
taneous, more  human  ?  Who  gives  you  credit  for  self- 
control  ?  No  one.  They  say  you  are  self-contained — 
a  very  different  idea.  They  say  you  are  cold.  Now, 
I  don't  care  what  I  do.  I  follow  every  impulse.  I 
must  follow  them.  I  had  to  come  here  this  evening. 
I  had  to  tell  you  about  Reckage.  The  landlord  was 
odious.  I  met  two  men  on  the  staircase.  One  actually 
tried  to  peer  into  my  face.  I  have  never  submitted  to 
such  indignities.  Heaven  knows  what  they  are  think- 
ing now.  I  shall  remember  their  vile  laugh  as  long  as 
I  live.  But  I  was  determined  to  see  you.  And  here  I 
am.  Apparently  I  have  not  done  much  good  by  com- 
ing. You  hardly  believe  me.  You  think  me  an  indis- 
creet woman." 

"  I  think  you  are  splendid." 

*'  I  saw  Mrs.  Parflete  to-day.  She  is  beautiful.  But 
she  is  indiscreet,  too.  All  women  worth  considering 
are  miracles  of  imprudence." 

"  Haven't  I  always  said  so?" 

"  Then  how  can  you  expect  us  to  like  you  when  you 
are  so — so  wise?  " 

"  I  don't  expect  you  to  like  me." 

She  bit  her  lip  and  pretended  to  check  a  laugh. 

"  I  suppose  you  enjoy  this  room?  "  she  said,  glanc- 
ing round  it  till  her  eyes  fell  on  a  small  crucifix  which 
was  nailed  to  the  wall  behind  his  chair ;  "  it  is  so  de- 
pressing. You  are  very  perverse.  And  the  odd  thing 
IS 

"  Well,  what  is  the  odd  thing  ?  " 

"  That  you  are  attracted  by  Mrs.  Parflete.  Your  style 
ought  to  be  Saint  Clare  or  Saint  Elizabeth.  But  not 
at  all.     You  prefer  this  exquisite,  wayward,  perfectly 


270  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

dressed,  extremely  young  actress.  You  give  your  nature 
full  play  in  your  taste,  at  all  events." 

"  You  can  urge  that  much  in  my  favour,  then  ?  " 

**  Yes,  that  much.  Oh,  she's  pretty.  But  frivolous 
and  light-hearted — as  light-hearted  as  Titania.  There  ! 
I  have  been  wondering  what  I  could  call  her.  She  is 
Titania  in  alabaster.  Marble  is  too  strong.  At  first, 
I  thought  it  might  be  marble.  I  have  changed  my  mind 
since.  I  suppose  you  know  she  will  act  in  this  comedy 
with  Castrillon  at  the  d'Alchingens  ?  " 

"  So  Disraeli  has  told  me.  Did  you  come  to  tell  me 
that,  also  ?  " 

She  coloured,  but  met  his  angry  glance  without  flinch- 
ing. "  Now,"  she  thought,  "  he  is  going  to  show  temper." 

*'  I  came  to  tell  you  that,  also,"  she  repeated.  "  Pens^e 
is  opposed  to  the  whole  scheme.  Mrs.  Parflete  stamped 
her  very  beautiful  foot,  and  said,  '  I  go.'  Do  you 
approve  ?  " 

"  I  am  to  meet  Castrillon  to-night  at  the  Prince  d'Al- 
chingen's,"  he  answered,  evading  her  question. 

"  How  you  hate  him  !  " 

"  What  makes  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  I  know  your  face.  I  never  saw  any  love  there 
for  anybody,  but  just  then  there  was  a  look  of  hate." 

"You  are  quite  right.     I  do  hate  him." 

"  You  are  actually  trembling  at  the  mention  of  his 
name.  Then  you  have  feelings,  after  all."  She  clapped 
her  hands,  and  leaving  her  chair  walked  toward  him." 

"  Never  hate  me,  will  you  ?  "  she  said,  touching  his 
arm.  "  Promise  me  that  you  will  never  hate  me.  Like 
me  as  much  as  you  can." 

At  that  instant,  they  heard  a  tap  at  the  door,  and  the 
landlord,  carrying  a  few  letters  on  a  salver,  entered  the 
room.  Sara  pulled  down  her  veil — a  foolish  action, 
which  she  regretted  a  moment  later.     Orange  thanked 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  271 

the  man  for  the  letters  and  threw  them  on  the  table. 
The  landlord,  with  a  studied  air  of  discretion,  which 
was  the  more  insulting  for  its  very  slyness,  went,  half 
on  tiptoe,  out. 

"  Does  he  always  bring  your  letters  upstairs  ?  "  she 
asked. 

"  As  a  rule — no,"  said  Orange. 

"  Then  he  came  on  purpose  !  He  wanted  to  see  me 
— what  impudence  !  I  am  beginning  to  realise  what 
one  has  to  expect  if  one — if  one  takes  an  unconven- 
tional step." 

Her  voice  failed,  and  tears  began  to  roll  down  her 
cheeks.     Then  she  covered  her  face  with  her  hands. 

"  Every  courageous — every  disinterested  act  is  un- 
conventional," said  Robert ;  *'  you  are  tired  out — that's 
all." 

"You  see,"  she  answered,  with  a  note  of  harsh  sad- 
ness in  her  voice,  "  I  have  had  a  strange  day.  The 
scene  with  Beauclerk  was  a  great  strain.  I  feel  a  kind 
of  apprehensiveness  and  terror — yes,  terror,  which  I 
cannot  describe.  It  may  be  my  nerves,  it  may  be  fancy. 
But  I  am  too  conscious  of  being  alive.  Every  minute 
seems  vital.  Every  sound  is  acute.  This  day  has  been 
one  long  over-emphasis.  Look  at  my  hand :  how  it 
trembles !  Beauclerk  called  me  a  witch.  Certainly,  I 
am  more  sensitive  to  impressions  than  most  people." 

"  One  of  these  letters  is  from  Reckage.  It  is  written 
on  a  sheet  of  your  own  note-paper." 

She  dried  her  eyes,  and  looked  at  him  with  exulta- 
tion, astonishment,  and  a  certain  incredulity. 

"  Then  he  must  have  listened  to  me.  He  posted  it, 
after  all,  when  he  left  the  house.  He  is  always  impul- 
sive. I  remember  now — that  I  saw  him  give  some- 
thing to  the  groom.     Do  read  what  he  says." 

The  letter,  scrawled  hastily   on  the  pale  lilac  note- 


2/2  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

paper  affected  by  Sara  and  bearing  her  monogram,  ran 
as  follows : — 

"  My  Dear  Old  Fellow, — There  are  still  some 
points  of  arrangement  very  material  to  consider  with 
regard  to  this  Meeting  next  week,  and  I  hope  it  is  not 
too  late  to  go  into  them.  The  thing  cannot  be  done 
away.  But  the  circumstances  have  become,  thank 
God,  very  different  indeed.  Mr.  Disraeli  has  asked  me 
to  speak  in  his  stead  at  Hanborough — an  honour  so 
wholly  unexpected  and  undeserved  that  I  am  forced  to 
see  in  it  an  especial  mark  of  encouragement.  I  must 
admit  at  once  that  I  feel  greatly  flattered.  I  am  not 
now  to  be  taught  what  opinion  I  am  to  entertain  of 
those  gentlemen  whose  narrow  and  selfish  principles 
forced  me  to  move  against  my  inclination,  my  judg- 
ment, and  my  convictions.  I  am  persuaded  that  any 
additional  public  action — no  matter  how  indirect  on 
my  part--in  the  Nomination  of  Temple  would  have  at 
this  juncture,  the  worse  effect.  It  would  savour  of  self- 
advertisement — an  idea  which  I  abhor.  It  would  seem 
an  over-doing,  as  it  were,  of  my  own  importance.  You 
will  readily  agree,  I  know,  that  I  ought  to  keep  per- 
fectly quiet  before,  and  for  some  time  after,  my  Han- 
borough appearance.  Not  having  in  any  degree 
changed  my  view  upon  this  subject  of  the  Association, 
I  don't  feel  that  my  present  decision  is  inconsistent. 
I  think  it  will  strike  everybody  as  a  sensible — the  only 
sensible — course  to  follow. 

"  When  can  you  dine?     Or  if  you  won't  dine,  let  me 
see  you  when  you  can  spare  half  an  hour. 

"Yours  affectionately," 

"■  Beauclerk." 

Orange  turned  to  Sara  and  said,  when  he  had  finished 
reading — 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  273 

"  I  am  glad  he  wrote." 

"  You  knew  him  better  than  I  did.  He  is  still  a 
poor  creature,  for,  what  does  it  all  come  to  ? — a  ram- 
bling, stupid  lie.  The  letter  is  sheer  rubbish — a  com- 
plete misrepresentation  of  the  facts.  But  I  need  not 
have  come.  This  always  happens  when  women  inter- 
fere between  men,"  she  added,  bitterly  ;  "  you  don't 
want  us.  There's  a  freemasonry  among  men.  You 
excuse  and  justify  and  forgive  each  other  always." 

"  You  persuaded  liim  to  post  this." 

"  That  is  true.  He  might  have  done  so,  however, 
without  persuasion.  In  future,  call  me  the  busybody ! 
I  must  go  now.  I  have  made  you  late  for  d'Alchin- 
gen's  dinner.  What  a  lesson  to  those  about  to  make 
themselves  useful !  And  how  right  you  were  not  to 
get  bitter  !  I  take  things  too  much  to  heart.  I  must 
pray  for  flippancy.  Then,  perhaps,  I  may  find  no  fault 
with  this  world,  or  with  you,  or  with  anybody  !  " 
.   "  I  am  bitter  enough — don't  doubt  it." 

"  No  !  no  !  let  us  assure  each  other  that  this  is  the 
best  of  all  possible  worlds — that  Beauclerk  shows  clev- 
erness and  good  sense,  that  no  one  tells  lies,  no  one  is 
treacherous,  no  one  is  unjust,  malicious,  or  revengeful 
nowadays,  that  friends  are  friends,  and  enemies — 
merely  divided  in  opinions  !  We  must  encourage  our- 
selves in  a  cynical,  good-natured  toleration  of  all  that 
is  abject  and  detestable  in  mankind." 

"  You  are  too  impatient,  Lady  Sara.  You  want  life 
concentrated,  like  a  play,  into  a  few  acts  lasting,  say, 
three  hours.  Whereas,  most  lives  have  no  denoue- 
ment— so  far  as  lookers-on  are  concerned  !  " 

"At  last  some  one  has  been  able  to  define  me  !     I 

am  '  impatient.'     But  you  take  refuge  in  that  profound 

silence  which   is  the  philosophy  of  the    strong ;  you 

don't  struggle  against  the  general  feeling  ;  you  content 
18 


274  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

yourself  by  going  your  own  gait  quietly.  You  have 
pride  enough  to  be — nothing,  and  ambition  enough  to 
do — everything.  Hark!  what  is  that?  They  are  call- 
ing out  news  in  the  street." 

"  The  current  lie,"  said  Orange.  "  We  don't  want 
to  hear  it." 

Sara  walked  to  the  window  and  threw  it  open. 

"  I  caught  a  name,"  she  exclaimed.  "  It  is  some- 
thing about  Reckage  .  .  .  Listen  .  .  .  Reckage  !  " 

Above  the  din  of  the  traffic,  a  hoarse  duet  rose  from 
the  street — voice  answering  voice  with  a  discordant 
reiteration  of  one  phrase — "  Serious  accident  to  Lord 
Reckage  !     Serious  accident  to  Lord  Reckage  !  " 

"  My  God,  what  are  they  saying  ?  What  are  they 
saying?  It  is  my  imagination.  It  can't  be  true.  I 
am  fancying  things.     What  are  they  saying  ?  " 

Orange  had  already  left  the  room  and  was  in  the 
road.  When  he  returned,  he  gave  her  the  newspaper 
and  did  not  attempt  to  speak.  But  he  closed  the 
window  in  order  to  shut  out,  if  possible,  the  hideous 
cry. 

"Where  is  it?  I  can't  see!  In  which  column?" 
said  Sara. 

He  pointed  to  a  corner  on  the  third  page,  where  she 
read  in  black,  rough  type  : — 

"  Lord  Reckage  was  thrown  from  his  horse  at  Hyde 
Park  Corner  this  afternoon.  He  was  removed  to 
Almouth  House.  His  injuries  are  said  to  be  of  a  very 
dangerous  nature.''' 

She  crushed  the  paper  in  her  hand,  and  the  two 
stood  looking  at  each  other,  stupefied  by  the  blow. 

"  I  am  going  to  him,"  said  Robert. 

"And  I  must  go  home,"  whispered  the  girl.  "He 
always  said  that  Pluto  would  be  the  death  of 
him." 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  275 

They  went  down  the  stairs  together  without  ex- 
changing a  word.  Orange  walked  with  her  to  St. 
James's  Square.  Neither  could  speak.  On  parting  she 
faltered, — 

"  Let  me  know  .  .  .  how  he  is  .  .  ." 


2/6  ROBERT  ORANGE. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

Lord  Reckage  had  been  carried  through  the  hall 
of  Ahiiouth  House,  but  not  up  the  famous  staircase  of 
which  he  was  so  proud.  He  looked  at  it  as  they  bore 
him  to  the  library,  and  although  he  was  still  in  a  kind 
of  stupor,  the  terrified  servants  could  read  in  his  eyes 
the  certain  knowledge  that  he  would  never  behold  the 
marble  walls  or  the  portraits  of  his  ancestors  again. 

"Are  you  in  pain,  my  lord?  is  your  lordship  in 
pain?"  sobbed  the  housekeeper.  His  features  were 
injured  and  his  face  was  perfectly  pallid — so  much 
changed  that  he  could  not  have  been  immediately 
recognised.  Four  doctors — one  of  them  a  passer-by  at 
the  time  of  the  accident — had  assembled.  They  found 
one  shoulder  was  severely  injured,  and  the  right  collar- 
bone broken.  He  complained  of  great  pain  in  his 
side. 

"Am  I  going  to  die.  Sir  Thomas?"  said  he. 

"  Why  should  you  die?"  replied  the  distinguished 
surgeon.     "  But  you  have  had  a  nasty  fall." 

"  Pluto  shied  at  something,"  answered  his  lordship; 
"  mind  they  don't  shoot  him.     I  won't  have  him  shot." 

Then,  for  a  few  moments,  he  lost  consciousness. 

When  Orange  arrived,  the  physicians  were  looking 
very  grave,  and  telegrams  had  been  despatched  to  all 
the  young  man's  near  relatives. 

"  He  has  called  for  you  several  times,"  said  Sir 
Thomas ;  "  and,"  he  added,  dropping  his  voice,  "  is 
there  any  lady  who  could  meet  .  .  .  the  family?     I 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  277 

fancy  I  caught  a  lady's  name  more  than  once.  Could 
it  have  been " 

"  Sara,"  suggested  Orange,  to  relieve  his  embarrass- 
ment. 

"  It  certainly  sounded  like  Sara." 

"  Then  I  will  send  Lord  Garrow  a  note — she  is  Lord 
Garrow's  daughter — a  lifelong  friend.  Is  there  no 
hope  ?  " 

"He  may  have  a  pretty  good  night." 

Robert  bowed  his  head  and  asked  no  more.  He  sat 
by  the  dying  man,  whose  sufferings,  although  they 
were  a  little  alleviated  by  morphia,  made  him  restless. 
He  moaned  even  in  his  snatches  of  sleep,  and  spoke 
occasionally — always  about  the  accident.  Once  he 
mentioned  Agnes : 

"  Agnes  will  be  sorry  when  she  hears." 

Toward  daybreak  he  turned  to  Orange,  and  said  quite 
simply — 

"  You  are  different  from  the  rest.  You  have  the 
priest's  element  in  you  ;  there  is  an  incessant  struggle 
and  toil  to  cut  one  another's  throat  among  us  average 
men — all  striving  after  success.  You  weren't  built  that 
way.     God  bless  you." 

In  the  morning  his  father  and  the  near  relatives 
arrived.  The  women  cried  bitterly.  The  aged  peer 
looked  on  in  stony  grief — drinking  in  his  son's  scarred 
faced  and  glancing,  with  despair,  from  time  to  time,  at 
the  clock. 

"  It  isn't  going,  is  it?"  he  asked. 

No,  it  had  been  checked ;  the  tick  disturbed  his  lord- 
ship, but  there  was  an  hour-glass  on  the  table. 

"  How  many  hours  do  they  think ?" 

"  Perhaps  ten  hours." 

When  the  sand  had  run  down  at  the  conclusion  of 
the  first  hour,  no  one  reversed   the  instrument.     But 


2/8  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

Lady  Margaret  Sempton,  the  Earl's  sister,  sent  a  whis- 
pered message  to  the  Bishop  of  Hadley,  who  was  wait- 
ing, much  altered  by  sorrow  and  anxiety,  in  the  ante- 
room. Reckage  had  asked  to  see  him.  He  had  always 
liked  the  good  old  man,  and  the  rest  withdrew  during 
their  short  interview. 

Meanwhile  carriage  after  carnage  drove  up  to  the 
door  ;  caller  after  caller  appeared  with  cards,  notes,  and 
inquiries ;  name  after  name  was  inscribed  in  the  visit- 
ors' book  ;  telegrams  came  from  the  Royal  family,  from 
all  parts  of  the  country  and  the  Continent. 

"  My  poor  boy.  I  didn't  know  he  had  so  many 
friends,"  said  his  father.  "  God  forgive  me,  I  used  to 
think  he  wasted  his  time  on  fads." 

And  odd  people  came  also.  Trainers,  jockeys,  and 
horse-dealers  rubbed  shoulders  on  the  doorsteps  with 
collectors  of  old  furniture,  missionaries,  electioneering 
agents,  ladies  of  the  chorus,  of  the  corps  de  ballet, 
shabby-genteel  individuals  of  both  sexes  out  of  work, 
and  the  like ;  each  had  his  degree  of  regret  and  an 
anecdote. 

"  He  was  always  very  kind  to  me,"  said  this  one, 
that  one,  and  the  other. 

Bradwyn,  noting  some  of  these  unusual  visitors,  ob- 
served that  Reckage  had  a  knack  of  pleasing  the  lower 
classes  and  half-educated  persons  generally.  He  heard 
a  Bible-reader  say  to  the  footman :  "  Take  ye  heed, 
watch  and  pray ;  for  yc  know  not  zvhen  the  time  is  .^  " 
and  he  shuddered  at  this  exhibition  of  bad  taste.  Lord 
Garrow  had  been  unremitting  in  his  personal  inquiries, 
but  Sara  did  not  come  till  she  received  the  following 
from  Orange — 

"  He  is  conscious,  and  he  asks  to  see  you." 

She  reached  the  room  as  the  Bishop  of  Hadley  was 
coming  out ;  tears  were  in  his  eyes  and  he  did  not  notice 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  279 

the  young  lady  who  glided  past  him  as  lightly  as  a 
shadow.  Poor  Reckage  recognised  her  step,  however, 
and  pulled  the  sheet  half  over  his  face  lest  she  should 
be  startled  at  its  harsh  disfigurements.  She  threw  off 
her  hat  and  veil  and  fell  on  her  knees  by  the  side  of  his 
bed. 

"  Speak  to  me,  Beauclerk,  speak  to  me  ;  it  is  I — 
Sara." 

"  I  know  you,"  he  whispered ;  "  you  are  the  one  I 
loved  the  best.  But  I  haven't  been  true  to  anybody. 
I  only  wish  to  goodness  I  had  another  chance.  I'd  be 
different — I'd  show  'em  ...  I  never  meant  .  .  ."  he 
took  her  hand,  her  beautiful,  tapering  hand  loaded  with 
sapphires  ..."  like  your  eyes,  old  girl  .  .  .  don't 
cry  .  .  .  and  I  say,  I  posted  that  .  .  .  letter  after  all 
...  to  please  you.     Are  you  .  .  .  pleased  ?  " 

He  spoke  no  more. 

Action  is  the  essence  of  political  parties,  and  the 
members  of  the  League  had  the  ink  barely  dry  on  their 
telegrams  of  condolence  before  they  despatched  others, 
summoning  a  special  meeting  for  the  consideration  of 
future  steps.  Orange,  who  was  regarded  as  a  man  de- 
void of  ambition,  was  unanimously  elected  a  member 
of  the  Executive  Committee  ;  he  was  a  good  speaker,  he 
could  mind  his  own  business,  he  never  pulled  wires, 
and  it  was  his  rule  to  step  aside  when  others  behind 
him  showed  any  disposition  to  push  toward  the  front. 
On  the  evening  of  the  day  on  which  Lord  Reckage 
died,  Aumerle  and  Ullweather  called  at  Vigo  Street  as 
a  preliminary  move  in  their  new  plan  of  campaign. 
But  Robert  was  not  there.  He  sat  all  that  night,  a 
solitary  watcher,  in  the  chamber  of  death.  His  affec- 
tion for  his  old  pupil  was  something  stronger  than  a 
brother's  love.     Whether  he   saw   him   as  others   saw 


280  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

him,  or  whether  he  was  aware  of  certain  pleasant  traits 
in  that  uncertain  character  which  escaped  the  comnion 
run  of  dull  observers,  his  devotion  had  never  wearied 
in  all  the  years  of  their  acquaintanceship. 

The  old  housekeeper  crept  into  the  room  when  the 
bereaved  family  had  retired,  and  she  was  on  her  way 
to  bed. 

"  You  and  me,  sir,  always  got  on  with  his  lordship," 
she  said,  looking  down,  with  Robert,  at  the  still,  marred 
face.  "  We  understood  him.  He  wasn't  all  for  self — 
as  many  thought.  But  his  heart  wanted  touching.  If 
you  could  touch  his  heart,  a  kinder  gentleman  didn't 
live.  And  if  it  was  my  last  breath,  I'd  call  him  the 
best  of  the  lot — in  spite  of  his  tantrums,  and  hischange- 
ableness,  and  his  haughty  way  sometimes.  Mark  my 
words,  the  glory  of  Almouth  dies  with  him.  Mr.  Hercy 
will  bring  us  down  to  rack  and  ruin.  O,  sir,  I'm  glad 
I'm  old.  I  never  want  to  see  the  sorrow  that  is  sure  to 
come  to  Almouth." 

But  Orange  was  not  thinking  about  the  house  of  Al- 
mouth, or  its  fate.  His  thoughts  were  with  the  soul  of 
the  young  man  who  had  enjoyed  life  so  well,  and  made 
so  many  plans,  and  cherished  so  many  worldly  hopes — 
of  the  young  man  who  had  existed  apparently  to  in- 
dulge his  own  will,  spend  money,  kill  time,  and  fulfil  a 
a  few  rather  showy  responsibilities.  And  yet  what 
Robert  remembered  best  was  his  laugh.  He  could  hear 
it  still. 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  281 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

Prince  d'Alchingen  had  been  much  put  out  of 
conceit  with  himself  by  disappointment.  The  small 
dinner  which  he  had  carefully  arranged  for  Orange  and 
Castrillon  took  place,  but  Orange  was  not  present.  He 
had  sent  word  from  Almouth  House  that  he  could  not 
leave  Lord  Reckage.  His  Excellency,  therefore,  was 
thoroughly  annoyed,  and  Castrillon's  persiflage  fell 
heavily  upon  his  ears.  He  tried  to  think  that  this 
nobleman's  vivacity  made  him  appear  flippant,  whereas 
he  was,  in  reality,  a  Don  Juan  of  the  classic  type — un- 
scrupulous, calculating,  and  damnable.  When  he  re- 
marked that  it  was  grande  folie  de  vouloir  d'etre  sage 
avec  line  sage sse  impossible,  i\\.Q  Prince's  spirits  rose  — 
only  to  fall  again,  however,  at  a  later  pronouncement 
from  the  same  lips  to  the  effect  that  virtuous  women 
always  brought  tears  to  his  eyes. 

"  They  tell  me,"  said  the  Prince,  weighing  each  syl- 
lable with  great  deliberation  (they  carried  on  their  con- 
versation principally  in  French  and  Spanish)  ''  that 
Mrs.  Parflete  is  an  admirable  actress." 

Castrillon  kissed  the  tips  of  his  fingers  to  the  air,  and 
ejaculated  :  "  Adorable  !  " 

"  Does  she  resemble,  in  any  way,  I  wonder,  her  good 
mother,  Madame  Duboc  ?  " 

No,  she  had  her  own  style — although  she  was  co- 
quettish enough.     And  pretty  ?     Delicious. 

"  This  is   better,"'  thought  his    Excellency,  "  much 


282  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

better.  And  do  you  think,"  he  asked,  aloud,  "  that  she 
cares  at  all  for  Orange  ?  " 

Castrillon  smirked  and  put  his  hand,  half  instinct- 
ively, to  his  breast-pocket.  D'Alchingen  inferred,  from 
this  quick  movement,  that  he  carried  a  letter  or  two, 
or  a  keepsake,  from  the  lady  near  the  region  of  his 
heart. 

"  She  may  need  the  tonic  of  some  Platonic  love  in 
order  to  bear  the  burden  of  a  solitary  life,"  said  the 
Marquis ;  "  but,  all  the  same,  I  have  no  especial  reason 
to  think  that  M.  de  Haus^e  is  her  ideal." 

"  He  is  the  ideal  of  several  persons,"  said  Alchingen  ; 
"  I  don't  know  what  to  make  of  him." 

But  at  this  point  Castrillon  displayed  a  maddening 
discretion.  The  Prince  was  glad  when  he  took  his  de- 
parture, and  he  exhausted  his  stock  of  malice  in  wish- 
ing the  young  coxcomb  to  the  devil.  His  Excellency 
was  becoming  more  and  more  morose  over  his  snuff 
and  the  last  mail—  which  was  longer  and  duller  than 
usual — with  a  peculiarly  sharp  note  from  his  Chief  into 
the  bargain — when  Mudara  was  announced. 

Mudara  bowed  to  perfection,  and  then,  going  forward, 
presumed  to  put  his  hand  on  the  Ambassador's  arm. 

"  Your  Excellency,"  said  he,  "  I  have  some  important 
news.  On  the  whole  it  is  gratifying.  It  may  make  us 
cynical,  but  it  is  absurd  to  expect  human  nature  to  be 
Divine.  Mrs.  Parflete  has  been  at  Orange's  lodgings 
this  afternoon." 

"You  don't  mean  it?" 

"  Indeed,  it  is  too  true.  When  he  moved  to  Vigo 
Street,  I  was  fortunate  enough  to  secure  a  room  in  the 
same  house  immediately  under  his.'' 

"  Good  !  " 

"  I  was  sitting  at  my  table,  with  the  door  just  ajar, 
when  I  heard,  at  six  o'clock,  a  rustle  of  silk  skirts    on 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  283 

the  stairs.  I  peeped  out.  I  saw  a  tall  lady,  thickly 
veiled,  following  our  landlord,  Dunton,  across  the 
landing.  She  caught  sight  of  me,  and  started 
violently." 

"Was  it  Mrs.  Parflete?" 

"  I  could  sivear,"  he  answered  slowly,  "  that  it  was 
Mrs.  Parflete.  .  .  .  She  reached  Orange's  door;  Dun- 
ton  tapped ;  Orange  came  out  ;  the  lady  and  he  ex- 
changed glances  ;  they  entered  the  room  together,  and 
he  closed  the  door.  Three-quarters  of  an  hour  later 
they  came  down  the  stairs  and  left  the  house." 

"  You  followed  them  ?  " 

"Alas!  I  couldn't.  I  was  not  alone.  Parflete  him- 
self was  with  me.  I  dared  not  trust  him  out  of  my 
sight.  He,  following  his  custom,  grew  faint  at  the 
sight  of  Madame " 

"Then  he,  too,  recognised  her?     This  is  excellent." 

"  He  recognised  her  height  and  her  figure.  Besides, 
whom  else  could  it  have  been — if  not  Mrs.  Parflete? 
M.  de  Haus^e  has  no  sister,  and  we  know  his  character. 
The  caprice  of  fortune  has  honoured  him  with  many 
faults,  but  gallantry  is  not  among  them.  I  have  that 
from  those  who  knew  him  when  he  was  too  young  to 
disguise  his  true  nature.  He  would  not  have  been  an 
abb^  nialgr^  lui,  and  he  has,  on  the  contrary,  the  most 
ecclesiastical  soul  I  know.  Rest  assured,  your  Excel- 
lency, that  this  canaille  of  a  woman  is  determined  to 
be  his  ruin,  for  she  is  a  baptised  serpent, — one  of 
those  creatures  more  dangerous  to  men  than  the  devil 
himself." 

The  Ambassador  smiled  agreeably,  put  his  tongue  in 
his  cheek,  and  nodded  his  head  with  a  movement 
which  might  have  passed  equally  well  for  a  sympathetic 
reproof  or  sorrowful  acquiescence. 

"  What  will  Parflete  do  ?  "  he  asked. 


284  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

Mudara  threw  up  his  dark,  sinewy,  and  powerful 
hands  in  genuine  despair. 

"  He  is  the  vice  of  the  situation,"  he  exclaimed  ;  "  at 
the  very  mention  of  divorce  his  teeth  chatter,  he  gets 
a  spasm  of  the  heart,  and  he  begins  to  gabble  like  a 
sick  monk  about  his  soul  and  his  conscience.  Believe 
me,  we  are  dealing  with  a  madman.  How  can  any  end 
be  attained  in  his  present  state  of  irresolution?  " 

"  Happily  it  is  not  my  business  either  to  arrange  or 
propose  the  means." 

The  sly  glance  of  the  Prince  encountered  the  sly 
glance  of  the  Agent. 

"  That  is  well  understood,  your  Excellency,"  said 
Mudara,  with  the  inimitable  accent  of  respect.  "  Let 
good  be  done  and  let  evil  be  avoided,  is  the  sum  total 
of  the  Government's  desires.  But  whenever  I  can  see 
clearly,  I  shall  know  how  to  act.  When  right  and 
truth  are  plain,  time  and  experience  are  the  best  allies. 
We  have  at  least  sufficient  evidence  to  institute  divorce 
proceedings.     If  Parflete  will  not  file  a  petition " 

"You  can  do  nothing.  Unless  you  can  be  perfectly 
sure  that  he  will  follow  some  reasonable  course,  he 
ought  to  be  saved  from  himself." 

"  Yes,  he  ought  to  be  saved  from  himself.  Some- 
thing in  my  nature  makes  me  follow  a  certain  kind  of 
man  as  hounds  track  game.  What  is  now  to  be  done 
is  to  meet  force  with  force." 

"An  armed  diplomacy  is  good,"  said  d'Alchingen. 

"  And  also  a  scheme  of  alternatives,"  replied  Mudara. 

"  I  confess  I  very  much  prefer  working  through 
Castrillon,  if  possible,  than  de  Haus^e.  Disraeli  has 
implicit  faith  in  this  de  Haus^e.  It  seems  taken  for 
granted  that  he  is  ascetic  and  intellectual.  He  is  alto- 
gether in  the  clouds,  whereas  Castrillon  is  wholly  in 
touch  with — with  humanity." 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  285 

"  But  de  Haus^e,  like  the  Cardinal  de  Retz,  fought 
duels  when  he  was  a  student.  If  I  cannot  work  upon 
Parflete's  jealousy,  we  must  see  what  can  be  done  in 
that  direction  with  de  Hausee.  We  hear  much  of 
the  soul's  awakening  !  Wait  for  the  body's  awaken- 
ing now — it  must  come.  Mrs.  Parflete  is  a  Samari- 
taine ;  we  have  to  prove  it  somehow.  Even  though 
one  invented  stories  about  her,  one  would  probably 
find  that  they  were,  approximately,  true." 

"  Keep  me  informed,"  said  the  Prince,  making  a  little 
bow,  which  signified  that  the  audience  was  at  an  end. 

Mudara,  according  to  his  own  Confession,  left  the 
Embassy  and  proceeded  at  once  to  the  small  private 
hotel  near  Covent  Garden  where  Parflete  had  taken  up 
his  abode. 

Parflete's  rooms,  {we  read)  were  en  suite.  He  had 
bought  a  few  rather  beautiful  prints  and  a  number  of 
exquisitely  bound  books.  These  last,  with  bowls  and 
vases  of  flowers,  were  scattered  over  the  various  tables. 
The  scent  of  the  flowers  mingled  with  the  strange  fumes 
of  some  Oriental  incense.  He  had  draped  pieces  of 
flame-coloured  silk  over  the  windows.  Everything 
looked  bizarre,  and  the  atmosphere  was  sultry.  When 
I  entered  he  was  not  pleased  to  see  me — in  fact,  he 
showed  a  disposition  to  sulk.  I  laboured  to  convince 
him  that  he  would  forfeit  the  respect  of  all  honourable 
men  unless  he  showed  some  just  resentment  at  his 
wife's  conduct. 

*'  No  one  respects  me  as  it  is,"  he  answered  ;  "  no- 
body cares  what  I  do  one  way  or  the  other  so  long  as 
I  avoid  the  police.  And  as  the  police  and  I  have 
nothing  at  all  in  common,  I  am  not  likely  to  give 
offence  to  my  good  friends  in  the  Alberian  Govern- 
ment." 


286  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

I  warned  him  that  such  sneers  were  unjustifiable, 
and  I  reminded  him,  with  severity,  of  the  Govern- 
ment's extraordinary  forbearance. 

He  fixed  his  eyes  unpleasantly  upon  me,  and  his 
fingers  trembled  as  he  played  with  the  frogs  of  his 
lilac-velvet  smoking-jacket. 

"  I  wish,"  said  he,  "  that  you  would  mind  your  own 
business.  I  have  done  everything  to  protect  the  ap- 
pearance of  your  good  faith  all  through  this  affair. 
Now  leave  me  alone.  Besides,  I  can't  be  sure  that  the 
lady  we  saw  to-day  was  Her  Imperial  Highness." 

My  exasperation  at  his  tone  of  defiance  was  all  but 
uncontrollable. 

"  You  know,"  said  I,  "  that  we  had  no  doubt  of  her 
identity." 

"  We  didn't  see  her  face  nor  the  colour  of  her  hair. 
In  any  case,  I  refuse  to  humiliate  her.  Kindly  re- 
member that  she  is  my  wife,  and  drop  a  conversation 
which  I  find  insulting." 

Hot  words  then  passed  between  us.  In  my  anger  I 
may  have  uttered  several  truths  which  hit  him  too 
hard.  Suddenly  he  sprang  at  me  as  though  he  were 
a  wild  cat.  His  eyes  rolled,  his  face  was  convulsed 
beyond  recognition.  Men  I  have  never  feared ;  he 
seemed,  however,  not  a  man,  but  some  demoniac  risen 
from  hell.  In  self-defence  I  struck  him  with  the  small 
poniard  which  I  have  carried  all  my  life.  He  staggered 
back,  and  the  blood-letting  seemed  to  relieve  his 
temper. 

"Go!"  said  he;  "go  while  you  can.  I  don't  think 
the  wound  is  mortal,  but  I  don't  wish  any  man  hanged 
for  murdering  me." 

It  was  in  my  will  to  strike  him  again.  I  was  beside 
myself  with  contempt  at  what  I  took  to  be  a  fresh 
revelation  of  his  cowardice. 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  287 

I  replied  coolly  enough, — "  I  would  not  murder  you. 
Have  no  alarm  on  that  score.  But  I  can  defend  my- 
self, I  hope." 

By  this  time  he  had  reached  the  door  and  thrown  it 
open.     A  waiter  was  passing  at  the  time. 

"  Sir,"  said  Parflete,  "  I  have  the  honour  to  wish  you 
good-day." 

The  waiter  heard  this  remark  distinctly,  and  saw  me 
bow  as  I  parted  from  the  wretched  creature. 

Parflete's  appearance  was  ghastly,  but  I  attributed 
this  pallor  to  fright  and  not  to  pain,  for  I  believed  from 
my  heart  that  the  wound  was  no  more  than  a  slight  prick. 
I  left  the  hotel,  took  a  cab  to  my  lodgings,  and  after 
reading  a  light  Spanish  novel  in  order  to  change  the 
current  of  my  thoughts,  I  passed  an  excellent  night, 
sleeping  at  least  seven  hours. 


288  ROBERT  ORANGE. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

Lord  Garrow,  after  much  cautious  consideration, 
had  decided  that  Lady  Sara  could  not  absent  herself 
from  the  d'Alchingens'  party  without  exciting  un- 
favourable comment,  and  so  prejudicing  her  future  re- 
lationship with  the  Duke  of  Marshire.  His  lordship, 
in  his  secret  heart,  was  by  no  means  sorry  for  Reckage's 
untimely  death.  An  orthodox  faith  in  a  better,  hap- 
pier world  assisted  his  conscience  over  the  many  diffi- 
culties which  afflict  a  strong  sense  of  good  manners. 
Good  manners  demanded  some  show  of  grief  at  the 
young  man's  melancholy  end ;  but,  as  his  lordship 
pointed  out  to  his  weeping  daughter,  higher  reflections 
ought  to  triumph  over  the  vulgar  instincts  of  sorrow, 
and  an  etiquette  almost  heathenish.  "  Let  us  be 
thankful,"  said  he,  "  that  poor  Beauclerk  was  spared 
some  lingering  malady  and  the  shattering  disappoint- 
ments  of  a  public  career.  He  would  not  wish  us  to 
mourn.  And  indeed,  any  undue  mourning  on  your 
part  might  give  a  very  false  impression  in  society.  You 
must  go  to  the  d'Alchingens'." 

Hadley  Lodge  was  built  in  the  reign  of  George  I. 
In  design  it  resembles  a  little  the  Vice-Regal  Lodge 
in  Dublin  ;  two  wings,  containing  innumerable  small 
rooms,  are  connected  by  corridors  leading  to  the  en- 
trance hall.  The  chief  rooms  are  in  the  centre,  tc 
which  Prince  d'Alchingen  himself  added  a  miniature 
theatre,  copied  from  the  one  at  Trianon.  When  Sara 
arrived,  the  Prince  and  Princess  were  taking  tea  in  the 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  289 

gallery — an  apartment  so  furnished  with  screens,  sofas, 
writing-tables,  divans,  and  arm-chairs  that  it  had  be- 
come the  lounge,  as  it  were,  of  the  house.  Less  formal 
than  the  saloon,  brighter  than  the  Library,  and  more 
airy  than  the  boudoir,  the  Princess  spent  the  greater 
part  of  her  day  in  a  favourite  corner  where  she  could 
command  a  view  from  four  windows,  enjoy  the  fire, 
see  the  best  pictures,  and  hear  the  piano  pleasantly  if 
any  guest  chose  to  play  upon  it.  In  person  she  was 
tall  and  rather  gaunt,  with  high  cheek-bones,  and  very 
dark  hollows  under  her  eyes.  She  had  the  air  of  a 
mourning  empress,  and  seriousness  was  so  natural  to 
her  countenance,  that,  although  she  could  not  smile, 
and  had  never  been  known  to  laugh,  she  was  not  de- 
pressing, nor  was  she,  accurately  speaking,  melancholy. 
The  style  of  beauty — for  she  had  beauty — was  hag- 
gard, of  the  kind  now  familiar  to  all  English  people 
from  the  paintings  of  Sir  Edward  Burne-Jones.  In 
1869,  however,  this  type  was  still  highly  uncommon 
and  little  appreciated.  Journals  and  letters  of  the 
period  contain  references  to  "that  fright,  Princess 
d'Alchingen,"  or  "that  poor  creature  who  always  looks 
so  ill,"  or  "that  woman  w^ho  makes  one  think  of  a 
corpse."  Sara  admired  the  Princess,  and  surprised  all 
the  fashionable  artists  of  that  day  by  insisting  on  her 
paintableness. 

"  How  good  of  you  to  come,  dear  Sara!"  she  mur- 
mured, presenting  her  sallow  cheek  to  the  young  girl 
with  a  touch  of  regal  graciousness  at  once  designed  and 
impulsive ;  "  I  should  have  been  lost  without  you. 
Anselm  has  invited  a  large  party,  and,  as  you  know, 
I  cannot  talk  to  these  dear  people.  I  find  them  too 
clever,  and  they  find  me  too  stupid.  The  world  is  not 
willing  to  give  me  credit  for  that  which  I  have  done." 

"  And  what  is  that,  dearest?"  asked  the  Prince. 


290  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

"  I  married  you  !  "  she  answered,  with  a  quick  flash 
of  humor  under  her  gravity.  It  was  Hke  the  occasional 
sparkle  in  granite.  "  You  may  smile  at  the  notion  of 
my  living  on  the  reputation  of  what  I  might  yet  do," 
she  continued,  resuming  her  languor. 

"  Let  us  talk  of  pleasant  things  only,  chcre  aniie," 
said  the  Prince,  turning  to  Sara ;  "  mind  you,  not  a 
word  about  graves  and  epitaphs,  Mrs.  Parflete  has  ar- 
rived. Castrillon  has  arrived.  You  need  not  trouble 
about  the  others.  They  are  not — they  cannot  be — 
worth  your  while.  But  do  watch  Castrillon,  I  find 
that  the  greatest  compliment  he  can  pay  to  any  woman 
is  to  sneer  at  her  expense.  He  never  permits  himself 
the  slightest  epigram  against  those  who  have  erred  in 
kindness  toward  him.  One  witty  but  frail  lady  once 
implored  him  to  miss  no  opportunity  of  abusing  her 
in  public.  *  Otherwise,'  said  she,  *  they  will  know  all.' 
Isn't  that  a  good  story?" 

"Anselm!"  sighed  the  Princess. 

"  I  wonder  who  that  lady  was  ?  "  said  Sara. 

"  I  dare  not  guess,"  said  the  Prince. 

Sara  had  recovered  from  the  emotion  called  forth 
by  Reckage's  tragic  fate,  and  she  was  living  now  in 
one  of  those  taciturn  reveries  which  had  become  more 
and  more  habitual  with  her  since  the  last  interview 
with  d'Alchingen.  Every  force  in  her  passionate, 
undisciplined  soul  was  concentrated  in  a  wild  love  for 
Orange,  and  every  thought  of  her  mind  was  fixed  on 
the  determination  to  win  his  affection  in  return. 
There  were  only  two  real  powers  in  the  world,  she 
told  herself;  these  were  moral  force  and  money. 
Money  could  not  affect  Robert.  But  he  was  suscepti- 
ble to  moral  force.  She  resolved  to  display  such  an 
intrepid  spirit,  such  strength  of  will,  such  devotion  that 
Brigit  would  seem  a  mere  doll  in  comparison. 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  291 

"  What  do  you  think,"  she  said,  turning  to  the 
Princess,  "  of  Mrs.  Parflete  ?  Your  opinion  is  worth 
everything.  Orange  is  infatuated  with  her.  His  criti- 
cism is  therefore  useless.  The  Prince  disapproves  of 
her  parentage.  He  is  therefore  prejudiced.  I  wish  to 
be  charitable.  I,  therefore,  say  what  I  hardly  think. 
Pensee  Fitz  Rewes  is  an  innocent  little  fool.  She 
judges  all  women  by  herself.  You,  Princess,  are  an 
angel  of  the  world.     Your  verdict,  quickly." 

The  Princess  paused  before  she  attempted  any  reply. 
Then  she  fixed  her  deep,  grey  eyes  on  Sara's  excited 
face. 

"  I  like  her,"  she  said  slowly, 

"  Is  that  all .?  " 

"  I  think  she  is  immature  for  her  age,  and  therefore 
reckless.  She  knows  everything  about  sorrow,  and 
very  little — at  present — about  happiness.  So  she 
doesn't  seem  quite  human.  She  shows  that  indulgence 
toward  others  which  is  perhaps  the  last  degree  of  con- 
tempt for  the  follies  of  humanity.  Those  who  take 
their  neighbours  seriously  are  almost  invariably  severe. 
Mrs.  Parflete,  on  the  contrary,  is  all  good-nature  and 
excuses.  I  believe  she  has  genius,  and  I  am  sure  she 
will  have  an  amazing  career." 

The  Princess,  who  had  always  insisted  on  a  studious 
rather  than  an  active  part  in  life,  was  consequently 
unlike  the  majority  of  her  sex,  who,  in  the  bustle 
of  social  engagements,  talk  without  ceasing,  letting 
words  take  the  place  of  ideas,  and  phrases  serve  for  sen- 
timents. All  that  she  uttered  showed  a  habit  of 
thought  opposed  to  the  common  method  of  drawing- 
room  conversation  ;  she  rarely  said  the  expected  thing, 
and  never  a  welcome  one.  Sara,  therefore,  was  dis- 
appointed at  this  favourable  judgment  of  Mrs.  Par- 
flete.    The  jealousy  which  she  had  been   able  to  con- 


292  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

trol  by  hoping,  in  the  depths  of  her  heart,  that  the 
young  actress  would  prove  too  light  a  creature  to  bind 
for  long  any  masculine,  stirring  spirit,  now  saw  some 
justification  for  vehemence. 

"  And  what  do  you  think  of  Robert  Orange  ?  "  she 
asked,  breathing  quickly. 

The  Princess  folded  her  hands,  fixed  her  eyes  again 
on  the  young  girl,  and  answered  in  her  usual  even 
tones — 

"  He  is  a  sentimentalist  turned  man  of  action.  When 
this  miracle  can  be  accomplished,  you  may  expect  a 
very  decided,  even  implacable,  character — because  it  is 
much  more  difficult  to  crush  one's  poetry  than  to  crush 
one's  passions.  The  passions  are  more  or  less  physical, 
they  depend  on  many  material  conditions  or  accidents  ; 
but  poetry,  ideals,  romance  and  the  like  belong  to  the 
spirit.  I  find  a  great  campaign  is  being  waged  every- 
where against  the  soul.  It  is  a  universal  movement — 
the  only  things  considered  now  are  the  pocket  and  the 
brain  and  the  liver." 

"Delightful!"  said  Sara,  trying  to  speak  calmly; 
"and  will  Orange  become  a  liver-devotee?" 

"  You  don't  understand  self-discipline,  cherie"  an- 
swered the  Princess  ;  "  that  seems  a  sealed  mystery  to 
most  people  except  the  Catholics  and  the  Buddhists. 
Protestants  never  speak  of  it,  never  think  of  it.  Their 
education  is  all  for  self-concealment.  If  I  read  M.  de 
Haus^e  rightly,  he  will  become  no  colourless,  emascu- 
lated being,  but  certainly  a  man  with  a  silent  heart. 
When  he  has  a  grievance  he  will  take  it  to  God — never 
to  his  friends." 

Prince  d'Alchingen  stifled  a  yawn  and  offered  Sara 
a  cigarette,  which  she  refused,  although  she  had 
acquired  the  habit  of  smoking  during  her  visits  to 
Russia. 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  293 

"  If  you  will  both  swear,"  said  he,  "  to  keep  a  secret, 
I  can  tell  you  one." 

The  old  and  the  young  lady  flushed  alike  with  de- 
light at  the  prospect  of  hearing  some  strange  news. 

"  It  will  come  well,"  he  continued,  "  after  my  wife's 
prophetic  remarks.  Mrs.  Parflete  went  alone  to 
Orange's  lodgings  on  Wednesday  last  at  six  o'clock." 

"  Is  it  possible  ?  "  exclaimed  the  Princess. 

Sara,  feeling  the  Prince's  dissecting  glance  burning 
into  her  countenance,  grew  white  and  red  by  turns. 

"  What  a  temperament !  what  jealousy  !  "  thought 
d'Alchingen. 

"  How  do  you  know  all  this  ?  "  she  asked,  thrusting 
her  hands,  which  were  trembling,  into  her  ermine  muff. 

"  I  know  it  for  a  fact.  The  question  now  is — How 
will  Parflete  endure  such  conduct?  Her  bigamy  may 
have  been  innocent,  or  at  least,  an  unavoidable  accident. 
But  the  afternoon  call — well,  if  he  can  swallow  that,  his 
meekness  runs  a  risk  of  being  called  cowardice,  and  his 
magnanimity  will  bear  an  unpleasant  resemblance  to 
dishonour." 

"  Yet  surely — surely "  stammered  Sara. 

In  a  second  she  grasped  the  mistake  which  had  been 
made,  and  all  its  possible  disastrous  consequences  to 
herself.  Loss  of  reputation,  the  finger  of  scorn,  and  for 
what?  Nothing,  or  at  the  worst,  an  indiscretion. 
Scandal,  had  there  been  a  romantic  cause,  and  loss  of 
reputation,  had  there  been  a  great  passion  to  make  it 
more  memorable  as  a  sacrifice  than  a  disgrace,  would 
have  seemed  to  her  defiant  mind  something  glorious. 
But  here  was  a  mere  unbeautiful  story — sordid,  if  mis- 
understood, and  a  little  silly,  if  satisfactorily  explained. 
And  it  could  not  be  satisfactorily  explained.  Sara 
knew  life  too  well  to  encourage  herself  by  supposing 
that  the  real  truth  about  her  foolish  visit  to  Orange's 


294  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

lodgings  could  ever  be  told  or  believed.  Orange  him- 
self would  never  betray  her  she  knew.  But  what  if  she 
had  been  seen  or  recognised  ?  The  landlord,  the  men 
on  the  staircase — had  they  followed  her  home,  or  been 
able  to  pierce  through  her  thick  veil  ?  She  tried  to 
collect  her  thoughts,  to  appear  extremely  interested — 
that  was  all.  The  effort,  however,  was  beyond  her 
strength.  She  showed  her  agitation,  and,  while  it  was 
fortunately  attributed  by  the  d'Alchingens  to  a  wrong 
reason,  they  were  close  observers  of  every  change  in 
her  face,  nor  did  they  miss  the  notes  of  alarm  and  ner- 
vousness in  her  voice. 

"  It  will  probably  mean  a  divorce,  the  social  ruin 
of  Orange,  and  the  successful  debut  of  Madame  as  a 
comedian  of  the  first  rank,"  said  the  Ambassador. 

"  Does  Orange  know  that  she  was  seen  that  day  ?  " 
asked  Sara. 

"  Not  yet.     He  will  know  soon  enough,  never  fear." 

"  Are  you  sure — quite  sure  that  it  was  Mrs.  Par- 
fiete?"  suggested  the  Princess. 

"  It  must  have  been  she,"  replied  the  Prince. 

"  It  must  have  been  she,"  repeated  Sara,  mechanic- 
ally. 

The  lie  seemed  to  come  before  she  had  time  to 
think  of  it ;  it  tripped  off  her  tongue  as  though  some 
will,  other  than  her  own,  controlled  her  speech.  But 
now  that  the  untruth  was  spoken  she  determined  to 
abide  by  it,  so  she  repeated  : — 

"  It  must  have  been  Mrs.  Parflete." 

"  And  suppose,"  said  the  Princess,  "  that  she  is  able 
to  prove  that  she  spent  the  whole  of  Wednesday  with 
Lady  Fitz  Rewes.  No  one  could  doubt  the  evidence 
of  Lady  Fitz  Rewes." 

D'Alchingen  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  In  that  event — which  is  unlikely,"  he  said :  "  M. 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  295 

de  Hausee  will  have  a  bad  half-hour  with  Mrs.  Parflete. 
The  idyll  will  be  spoilt  for  ever,  and  our  pretty  tale 
for  angels  about  a  Saint  and  a  little  Bohemian  will 
sink  to  its  proper  level.  It  always  takes  three  to  make 
a  really  edifying  Platonic  history.  The  third  in  this 
case  is  the  lady  who  called  at  Vigo  Street.  Dans  le 
combat,  il  faiit  inancJtcz  sans  sattendrir  !  " 

"  Who  would  live?"  murmured  the  Princess,  press- 
ing a  martyr's  relic  which  she  always  wore  on  a  chain 
round  her  neck. 

"  Suppose,"  continued  d'Alchingen,  enjoying  his 
own  cynicism,  "  that  we  have  a  quartette  in  this 
instance.  Madame  has  her  Castrillon,  M.  de  Hausee 
has  his  veiled  lady.  Each  is  a  pious  fraud  to  the 
other.  Imagine  the  double  current  of  their  thoughts, 
the  deceit,  the  hypocrisy,  the  colossal  lie  behind  them 
both  which  makes  the  inspiring  truth  a  fact !  It  is  an 
anecdote  to  be  told  in  the  Boccaccio  manner — grace- 
fully, with  humour,  with  much  indulgence  .  .  .  other- 
wise,  it  might  be  the  sort  of  story  they  tell  in  hell." 

"  I  am  happy  to  say  that  I  have  no  imagination," 
said  the  Princess ;  "  and  now  I  shall  take  Sara — who 
must  be  tired — to  her  room." 

She  rose  from  her  seat,  and,  drawing  Sara's  arm 
through  hers,  walked  from  the  gallery,  through  the 
hall,  and  up  the  staircase,  talking,  the  while,  of  a  new 
Romney  which  the  Prince  had  recently  purchased. 

Sara  was  now  in  her  own  room,  but  not  alone,  for 
her  maid  was  unpacking,  and  the  gown,  petticoat, 
shoes,  gloves,  and  flowers  designed  for  that  evening 
were  being  spread  out  upon  the  bed.  The  girl  was  in 
no  humour  to  enjoy  the  finery  which  she  had  chosen 
with  so  much  delight.  She  turned  her  back  upon  it 
all,  and,  pulling  up  the  blind,  gazed  moodily  out  of 
the  window  till  her  maid's  preparations  were  at  an  end. 


296  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

Romantic  trees  and  a  landscape,  almost  artificial  in  its 
prettiness,  surrounded  Hadley.  The  sun  was  setting 
in  a  fire,  burnishing  with  enamel  tints  the  long  green 
hills  which  ranged  as  a  natural  fortification  across  the 
horizon,  shutting  out  a  whole  country  of  flat  fields 
beyond.  The  moon,  in  its  first  quarter,  shone  out 
above  a  distant  steeple  where  the  eastern  sky,  already 
blue  and  opalesque,  promised  the  dawn  of  another  day 
in  reparation  for  the  one  then  dying  in  scarlet  splen- 
dour. But  to  those  who  are  unhappy,  to-morrow  is 
a  word  without  significance.  Sara  stretched  out  her 
arms  instinctively  toward  the  coming  night.  She 
wanted  darkness  and  she  wanted  sleep — not  the  stars 
of  the  morning,  not  the  joy  of  noon.  What  should 
she  do?  Her  mad  love  for  Orange  had  reached  a 
desperate  point — a  point  where  she  realised  all  too 
clearly  and  with  bitterness  that,  so  far  from  being  a 
source  of  strength,  it  was  a  curse,  a  malady,  a  humilia- 
tion— driving  her  into  that  insatiable  desire  of  solitude 
where  the  companionship  of  dreadful  imaginations  and 
gloomy  thoughts  can  rend  the  soul  at  their  pleasure. 
As  men  are  sometimes  lured  toward  dangerous  perils 
on  land,  or  mountains,  or  by  sea,  and  from  thence  to 
deeds,  discoveries,  and  crimes  unforeseen  and  unpre- 
meditated, so  she  seemed  borne  along  into  a  whirlpool 
of  feelings  which  paralysed  the  better  impulses  of  her 
nature  and  accentuated,  with  acid  and  fire,  every 
elementary  instinct.  Animal  powers  and  spiritual 
tendencies  alike  were  concentrated  into  one  absorbing 
passion  which  reasoned  only  in  delirium,  incoherently, 
without  issue.  She  was  wretched  in  Orange's  company 
because  every  moment  so  spent  showed  her  that  his 
heart  was  fixed  far  indeed  from  her.  But  the  wretch- 
edness suffered  that  way  was  stifled  in  the  torments 
she  endured  when   she  wondered,  miserably,  in  loneli- 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  297 

ness,  what  he  was  thinking,  doing,  saying ;  where  he 
was,  with  whom  he  was,  and  how  he  was.  The  despair 
of  unrequited  love  was  thrice  intensified  by  jealousy. 
"  Why  did  he  like  that  little  adventuress,  that  white 
china  Rahab  ? "  she  asked  herself  again  and  again. 
"  It  is  just  because  she  has  bewitched  him.  It  is  not 
real  love — it  isn't  any  kind  of  love.  She  cannot  care 
for  him  as  I  do.  It  isn't  in  her.  O  why,  why  does  he 
fight  so  hard  against  me?" 

Beautiful  women  seldom  believe  that  their  charms 
can  be  resisted  without  a  fierce  struggle.  It  was,  in 
fact,  a  tranquil  consciousness  of  beauty  which  gave 
audacity  to  Sara's  words,  and  put  the  ordinary  question 
of  pride  out  of  the  question.  Was  it  not  rather  a  case 
of  the  goddess  putting  on  humanity,  of  the  queen 
condescending  to  a  subject.  La  reine s' amuse  was  the 
unuttered,  constant  motto  on  her  heart  of  hearts.  The 
blood  of  Asiatic  princes  ran  in  her  veins,  and  a  sove- 
reign contempt  for  manners  as  opposed  to  passions 
and  self-will  ruled  her  fierce  spirit.  But  what  should 
she  do  ?  A  moment's  reflection  had  shown  her  that 
Brigit  could  have  no  difficulty  in  proving  that  she  was 
not  the  mysterious  lady  who  visited  Orange's  lodgings. 
Having  weighed  all  the  disadvantages,  Sara  now  di- 
rected her  attention  to  the  advantages  she  could  snatch 
out  of  the  dilemma.  At  last  she  hit  on  a  bold  plan. 
She  rang  a  bell  and  a  housemaid  answered  the 
summons. 

"■  Is  Mrs.  Parflete  in  her  bedroom  ?  "  asked  Lady 
Sara  ;  "  and  where  is  her  bedroom  ?  " 

"  Her  bedroom  is  next  to  yours,  my  lady.  She  is 
in  there  now." 

"  Thank  you." 

Sara  walked  along  the  corridor  till  she  reached  an 
oak   door    on   which    was  a  card    bearing   the    name 


298  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

she  sought.  She  tapped,  and  heard  Brigit  herself 
reply — 

"  Come  in." 

The  young  actress  was  lying,  in  a  black  silk  dressing- 
gown,  on  the  sofa.  Her  hair  fell  loosely  to  her 
shoulders,  and  she  had  evidently  been  fast  asleep,  for 
her  cheeks  were  less  pale  than  usual,  her  eyes  were 
bright,  and  the  happiness  of  some  pleasant  dream  still 
lingered  in  their  expression. 

"  Lady  Sara — how  good  of  you  to  come !  "  she  ex- 
claimed ;  "  I  have  been  trying  to  rest.  I  want  to  play 
well  this  evening." 

"  You  will  play  beautifully,  of  course,"  said  Sara, 
submitting,  even  in  her  jealousy,  to  the  charm  and 
grace  of  her  unconscious  rival.  "  I  have  come  on  a 
difficult  errand,"  she  added,  abruptly ;  "  you  may  not 
understand,  but  I  hope — 1  believe — you  will." 

She  became  so  pale  as  she  uttered  these  words  that 
Brigit  leant  forward  with  a  gesture  of  reassurance.  In 
spite  of  her  fragility  she  was,  from  the  habits  of  self- 
control,  the  stronger  spirit. 

"  You  may  be  sure  that  I  shall  understand,"  she  said. 

"  Forgive  me,  then,  but  some  enemy  has  circulated 
a  report  that  you  went  to  Mr.  Orange's  rooms  in  Vigo 
Street  last  Wednesday." 

A  deep  flush  swept  over  Brigit's  face. 

"  I  was  not  there,"  she  said. 

"  I  know,"  said  Sara.  "  I  know  you  were  not  there. 
They  made  a  mistake.  It  was  I  they  saw — not  you — 
it  was  I." 

Brigit  dropped  her  eyes  but  made  no  other  move- 
ment. She  seemed  to  grow  rigid,  and  the  hand  which 
had  been  playing  with  the  fringe  of  her  girdle  remained 
fixed  in  its  arrested  action. 

"  You  ?     It  was  you  ?     How you  ?  " 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  299 

"  I  had  to  see  him.  So  I  went  to  him.  Now  he  can 
easily  deny  that  you  were  there.  But  he  won't  betray 
me.  People  must  think  what  they  please.  But  I  am 
telling  you — because  you,  at  least,  ought  to  know  the 
truth." 

"  And  yet  it  is  not  my  business !  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?     Not  your  business  ?  " 

"  How  can  it  be  my  business  to  ask  what  lady  went 
to — to  his  lodgings  ?  " 

"  But  you  would  have  wondered " 

"  Yes,  I  should  have  wondered,  I  could  not  have 
helped  that," 

**  Mr,  Orange  and  I  have  been  friends,  as  you  know, 
for  some  time.  He  knew  me  years  ago  before  he — he 
met  you.  I  was  quite  a  little  girl.  I  remember  I  used 
to  hold  his  hand  when  I  walked  in  the  gardens  by  his 
side." 

"  He  has  often  spoken  of  you." 

"  But  all  this  does  not  help  us  now.  H  it  were  ever 
known  that  I — I  was  the  one,  the  other  day, — I  should 
be  ruined." 

"  You  may  be  sure  that  no  one  shall  know." 

**  I  am  not  so  selfish  as  I  seem.  I  don't  forget  that 
this  story  will  injure  him — injure  him  terribly.  They 
will  think  him  a  kind  of  Joseph  Surface — a  hypocrite. 
People  expect  him  to  be  different  from  everybody 
else.  A  piece  of  gossip  which  they  would  have  laughed 
at  and  taken  as  a  matter  of  course  from  poor  Beauclerk 
or  Charles  Aumerle — they  would  resent  bitterly  in 
Robert.  The  thing  that  grieves  me,  that  torments 
me,  is  the  fear  lest  this  act  of  mine  may  injure  him." 

*•  It  won't  injure  him,"  said  Brigit.  **  Have  no  fear 
at  all.  And  if  you  went  to  see  him,  as  you  say,  you 
must  have  had  the  best  of  reasons  for  doing  so.  You 
may  rely,  I  am  sure,  on  his  keeping  your  name  a  secret. 


300  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

You  were  kind  to  tell  me — for  he  certainly  would 
not  have  told  me — without  your  consent.  We  never 
see  each  other  now,  and  we  never  write  to  each 
other." 

Her  voice  trembled  for  the  first  time. 

"  How  does  he  look  ?  "  she  asked,  after  a  sharp 
struggle  between  her  pride  and  a  desire  to  hear  more. 

"  He  looks  ill  and  worn.     He  over-works." 

"  He  will  suffer  at  Lord  Reckage's  death." 

"  But  he  hides  his  feelings.     He  is  always  reticent." 

"  O,  to  see  him  and  talk  with  him — that  would  be 
such  a  joy  for  me." 

"  You  must  be  very  sad,  often,"  said  Sara,  coldly. 

"  Yes,  often,"  answered  Brigit.  "  And  I  was  so  happy 
during  the  short  time  we  were  together  that  now  it 
seems  no  part  of  my  life — no  part  of  it.  I  say  this  be- 
cause I  wish  you  to  know  that  nothing  can  make  us  love 
each  other  less — that  all  this  misery  and  separation — 
which  may  last  as  long  as  we  live — has  made  no  dif- 
ference and  can  make  no  difference  to  us.  And  if  I 
never  see  him  again,  or  speak  to  him  again,  he  will 
always  be  certain  that  I  am  his — unalterably,  for  ever 
his." 

"  You  are  little  more  than  a  child.  You  have  a  great 
career  before  you — who  can  say  what  may  happen  in 
the  future  ?  Women  without  careers  change  their 
mind — their  tastes.  These  things  are  out  of  one's  own 
control,  and  in  your  case " 

"  My  mind  may  change,  but  my  soul  cannot.  I  may 
dance,  I  may  amuse  myself,  I  may  have  friends.  Make 
no  mistake.  I  can  tell  you  all  that  is  in  me.  I  find 
life  beautiful.  The  theatre  enchants  me.  I  could  work 
there  all  day.  I  have  no  illusions  about  it — the  paint, 
the  machinery,  the  box-ofifice,  the  advertisements — the 
vulgarity  are  familiar  enough  to  me.     But  I  find  a  box- 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  301 

ofifice,  and  machinery,  and  vulgarity  everywhere,  though 
they  are  called  by  other  names." 

Sara  coloured  and  looked  away. 

"  I  am  getting  stronger  now,"  continued  Brigit.  "  I 
can  lift  up  my  head  and  see  the  world  as  it  is.  I  like 
it — yes,  with  all  its  griefs  and  its  horrors — I  like  it. 
When  one  is  ill  or  sentimental  one  hates  it,  because  it 
wasn't  made  for  the  sick,  and  it  was  not  created  as  a 
playground  for  lovers.  One  may  love — yes,  but  one 
must  work.  I  intend  to  love  and  work  at  the  same 
time." 

"  Many  find  that  these  two  occupations  clash  !  There 
is  a  time  in  love — just  as  there  is  a  period  in  life — when 
it  seems  enough  in  itself.  It  is  independent  of  circum- 
stances and  persons.  O,  but  that  time  soon  passes ! 
As  you  learn  more,  you  look  for  more.  And  work  is 
no  cure  for  dissatisfaction.  If  you  can  live  through  it 
you  will  just  be  a  machine  with  one  refrain — '  I  know 
nothing  !     I  have  nothing!     I  am  nothing  !  *  " 

The  two  young  girls  did  not  look  at  each  other. 
Brigit  could  recognise  an  agitation  of  the  soul  in  the 
imperceptible  sadness  of  the  voice,  and  she  guessed 
poor  Sara's  secret. 

"  Yes,"  she  said  quietly.  "  I  must  suffer  all  that. 
How  can  you  be  sure  that  I  have  not  suffered  it  already  ? 
At  any  rate,  I  hope  this  confidence  will  increase  your 
kindness  toward  me." 

"  I  have  no  kindness  toward  you — none  at  all,"  said 
Sara.  "  I  have  no  kindness  toward  any  living  creature. 
I  should  like  to  die  and  come  to  an  end.  I  wasn't  born 
to  put  up  with  make-shifts.  Other  women  may  be  re- 
signed to  that  paltry  way  of  existing.  If  they  can't 
have  what  they  want,  they  will  take  what  they  don't 
want ;  they  will  take  what  they  hate,  and  grin — yes, 
they  will  grin  and  bear  it.     And  after  a  little  while,  be- 


302  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

cause  they  become  gradually  stupefied,  they  begin  to 
think  they  are  noble.  They  are  not  noble.  They  are 
fools,  fools,  fools  !  " 

"  I  shan't  accept  make-shifts,"  answered  Brigit.  "  I 
intend  to  keep  all  my  ideals,  but  they  are  all  unfinished 
at  present.  I  have  just  the  outlines  and  beginnings  of 
them — nothing  else." 

"  I  am  not  talking  about  ideals.  I  am  speaking  of 
realities.  I  don't  want  to  be  happy,  but  I  do  wish  to 
be  one  of  four  things :  either  perfectly  alive,  or  per- 
fectly, utterly  dead  ;  either  a  pure  spirit,  or  a  faultless 
animal.  This  dead-and-alive,  body-and-soul  mixture 
which  passes  for  a  well-disciplined  human  being  is  loath- 
some to  me.     It  is  a  tissue  of  lies  and  hypocrisies." 

"  Perhaps  I  should  have  that  feeling,  too,  if  I  had  no 
faith  in  God.  He  assumed  humanity — not  despising 
it. 

"  You  know  I  do  not  believe  that  splendid  story — so 
it  doesn't  help  me.  I  compare  life  as  I  feel  it  with  life 
as  it  is,  and  the  inequality  fills  me  with  disgust.  The 
example  of  Christ  is  too  sublime.  He  was  human  only 
in  his  sufferings.  He  bore  our  burdens  and  He  shared 
our  agonies.  He  was  deceived,  despised,  rejected  :  the 
first  torture  and  the  first  fruits  of  His  Passion  was  the 
treachery  of  a  disciple.  When  I  am  sorrowful  and 
wretched,  He  seems  Real  to  me  and  vivid.  But  when 
I  am  well  and  wildly  happy,  He  seems  far  avv^ay  and  un- 
real— an  invisible  God,  watching  mortals  with  a  certain 
contempt.  Now  the  Pagans  had  a  Divinity  for  every 
mood,  so  they  never  felt  depressed  or  lowered  in  their 
own  self-esteem.  We  have  a  God  for  two  moods  only, 
— great  sorrow,  and  great  exaltation.  For  the  rest  we 
have  to  beat  our  breasts  and  call  ourselves  miserable 
sinners.  All  the  good  people  I  know  enjoy  mental 
peace  only — without  any  fear  of  remorse — when  they 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  303 

are  tired  out  or  moaning  with  physical  pain.  I  don't 
say  this  to  shock  you  ;  I  should  like  to  have  a  religion 
if  I  could  be  convinced  of  it  without  fasting,  without 
long  illnesses,  and  without  abandoning  all  hope  of 
earthly,  common  joys.  Most  Christians  take  a  middle 
way,  I  know ;  they  prattle  about  their  immortal  souls, 
and  behave  as  though  they  had  nothing  but  bodies.  I 
can't  take  part  in  such  a  gross  farce." 

Brigit  sighed  deeply,  and  did  not  reply  at  once. 

"  It  is  all  very  hard,  I  know,"  she  answered ;  "  but 
from  the  lowest  abyss  one  can  still  see  the  sky  over- 
head. People's  hearts  are  touched  by  the  spectacle  of 
sin  or  the  spectacle  of  suffering.  Our  Lord  could  not 
sin,  therefore  He  reached  our  sympathies  by  His  Death 
and  Sorrows.  Of  course,  if  this  life  here  were  all,  and 
this  world  were  the  only  one,  and  we  were  animals  with 
less  beauty  than  many  of  the  inanimate  things  in  nature, 
and  as  much  intelligence  at  best  as  the  bees  and  birds 
and  ants — then  the  Pagan  way  might  be  quite  admira- 
ble.    But  this  isn't  the  case,  and  so — and  so " 

Sara  laughed. 

"  We  are  a  grotesque  compromise  between  gods  and 
creatures,"  she  said  ;  "  those  of  us  who  find  this  out  get 
a  little  impatient  with  the  false  position.  You  are  less 
sentimental  than  I  am.  You  take  what  I  call  the  hard 
view.  It  is  too  frigid  for  me.  But  I  am  making  you 
late.     All  good  luck  to-night  !  " 

She  waved  her  hand,  and,  returning  to  her  own  room, 
realised  that  she  had  missed  the  object  of  her  conversa- 
tion. The  attempt  to  excite  Brigit's  jealousy  had 
failed. 

Nothing  is  so  infectious  as  despair.  Brigit  sat  quiver- 
ing under  the  echo  of  Sara's  last  words :  "  You  take 
what  I  call  the  hard  view."  Was  it,  then,  such  an  easy 
matter  to  bury  love  in  perpetual  silence,  to  let  nature 


304  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

yield  to  fate,  to  stifle  every  human  craving?  The 
mention  of  Robert's  name  and  the  news  that  he  looked 
ill  and  careworn  had  stirred  all  the  unshed  tears  in  her 
heart ;  she  could  not  think,  she  could  not  move,  she 
could  but  realise  that  she  had  no  right  to  be  with  him. 
And  sorrow  seemed  her  province.  There,  surely,  she 
and  he  might  meet,  join  hands,  and  speak  once  more 
face  to  face.  She  had  not  written  to  him  since  that 
parting  at  Miraflores.  But  she  would  write  now.  This 
was  her  letter — 

"  My  Dearest  Life — You  are  my  dearest  and  you 
are  my  life — so  let  me  say  it  now,  even  if  I  never  say  it 
again.  I  could  be  glad  (if  any  gladness  were  left  in  me) 
at  your  grief  for  Lord  Reckage's  death,  because  it  gives 
me  an  excuse  for  breaking  my  word  and  writing  to 
you.  This  is  selfish,  but  nobody  knows  how  much  I 
have  suffered,  or  how  much  I  suffer  daily,  hourly.  I 
try  to  believe  that  it  would  have  been  worse  if  we  had 
never  owned  our  love,  never  met  again  after  our  first 
meeting.  Darling,  I  can't  be  sure.  Sometimes  I  wish 
I  had  been  born  quite  numb.  I  dare  not  complain, 
and  yet  it  is  impossible  to  feel  contented.  Always, 
always  there  is  a  dreadful  pain  in  my  heart.  Every 
moment  is  occupied,  for  when  I  am  not  working,  I 
sleep,  and  when  I  wake,  I  work.  I  would  rather  spend 
one  perfect  day  with  you  and  die,  than  live  on  without 
you.  This  is  the  truth.  If  I  had  any  choice  that  would 
be  my  choice.  But  I  know  you  want  me  to  be  courage- 
ous, and  I  myself  want  you  to  see  that  a  woman's  love 
can  be  as  strong  as  a  man's.  Women  are  supposed  to 
make  men  weak — they  are  supposed  to  be  chains  and 
hindrances.  This  shan't  be  said  of  me.  You  wouldn't 
say  it :  you  wouldn't  think  it :  yet  in  history  I  find  that 
while  a  few  have  been  saved  by  women,  more  have 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  305 

been  ruined  by  them.  And  where  the  women  have 
saved  the  men  they  loved,  it  has  been  done  by  great 
renunciations  and  sacrifices — not  at  all  by  selfishness 
and  joys.  When  I  can  remember  this  (I  forget  it  too 
easily),  I  can  almost  persuade  myself  that  I  don't  long 
to  see  you,  to  hear  your  voice,  to  be  with  you  again  on 
the  boat — going  on  and  on  toward  Miraflores.  But  I 
never  persuade  myself  on  this  entirely — never,  never. 
I  do  long  to  see  you,  Robert :  I  do  want  to  be  with  you. 
I  envy  the  servant  in  your  lodgings,  and  the  friends 
you  meet.  And  I — who  love  you  so  dearly — may  not 
go  near  you.  I  am  going  to  act  to-night  as  if  I  were 
not  acting  all  day,  every  day.  I  haven't  said  one  word 
about  you.  But  you  couldn't  be  so  wretched  as  I  am, 
because  you  have  yourself,  you  know  what  you  are 
doing,  saying,  and  thinking.  Now  if  I  could  cease 
altogether  and  become,  say  your  hand  or  your  foot,  no 
one  would  expect  you  to  renounce  me.  I  might  be 
useful,  and  it  would  certainly  be  no  scandal  if  I  accom- 
panied you  everywhere !     I  won't  say  any  more. 

"  BRIGIT." 

She  addressed  an  envelope  and  sealed  the  letter 
within  it.  Then,  with  tears  streaming  down  her  cheeks, 
she  read  her  part  for  the  comedy  that  evening.  When 
Esther  entered  with  her  dressing-gown,  she  held  up  her 
hands  in  dismay. 

"  O  Madame,"  said  she,  "  I  thought  you  were  going 
to  play  an  amusing  piece  !  " 

"It  will  be  very  amusing,"  said  Brigit,  "but  this  is 

the  way  to  rehearse  it." 
20 


3o6  ROBERT  ORANGE. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

The  Marquis  of  Castrillon,  meanwhile,  was  pirouet- 
ting sublimely  before  the  long  mirror  in  his  dressing- 
room,  while  his  valet,  a  sour-faced  individual,  looked 
on  in  great  but  gloomy  interest.  The  Marquis  was 
superbly  dressed  in  a  Louis  Seize  costume — an  exact 
reproduction  of  the  one  worn  by  that  monarch  on  his 
wedding  day — and  he  presented  a  very  fine  figure.  He 
was  handsome  and  agreeable  to  a  supreme  degree.  In 
features,  expression,  colouring,  and  manner  it  would 
have  been  difficult  to  find,  or  imagine,  a  more  fascinat- 
ing mortal.  An  unsurpassable  actor  of  noble  parts,  he 
seemed  created  to  play  the  hero  in  deeds,  the  poet  in 
thoughts,  the  lover  on  all  occasions.  Confident  of  his 
attractions,  he  appeared  quite  free  from  vanity :  each 
fresh  attitude  became  him  better  than  the  last :  no  lisfht 
could  do  less  than  show  the  classic  beauty  of  his  head 
and  body.  When  he  laughed,  one  could  admire  his 
magnificent  teeth ;  when  he  looked  grave,  one  could 
enjoy  the  splendid  serenity  of  his  brow  and  the  passion 
in  his  deep  brown  eyes.  It  was  said  that  his  legs  alone 
would  have  made  the  plainest  man  a  dangerous  rival, 
that  his  well-cut  mouth  would  have  made  a  monster 
irresistible. 

"  So  you  don't  think,"  said  he,  as  he  executed  a  final 
bow  and  kicked  ofi  his  shoes  because  a  buckle  stuck 
into  his  instep — "  so  you  don't  think,  Isidore,  that  Her 
Imperial  Highness  loves  me?" 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  307 

"  I  know  she  doesn't,"  replied  his  man.  "  I  am  not 
going  to  say  that  I  see  more  than  I  see," 

"  It  may  be  that  she  cannot  love,"  said  the  Marquis, 
"  and  I  don't  think  less  of  her  on  that  account.  These 
sentimental  girls  become  very  tedious  and  sickening. 
The  women  whom  men  love  the  longest  are  prim, 
stand-off  women.     Have  you  noticed  that,  Isidore  ?  " 

"  No,  I  haven't  noticed  that.  I  haven't  noticed  much 
love  lasting  long  for  any  kind  of  person." 

"  There's  something  in  your  stupidity  which  refreshes 
me.  I  have  a  strong  notion  to  marry  Her  Imperial 
Highness.     I  could  make  her  happy." 

"  Not  you." 

"  I  tell  you  I  could.  She  has  the  oddest  effect  upon 
me.  No  other  woman  has  ever  affected  me  in  such  a 
way.  I  feel  when  I  am  with  her  as  though  we  were 
well  matched.  If  I  were  a  King,  I  would  make  her  my 
Queen.  I  might  love  others,  but  I  should  always  say, 
'  Remember  the  Queen.  The  Queen  must  be  remem- 
bered, and  honoured,  and  obeyed  in  all  things.'  Some- 
times I  see  myself — with  her — at  a  kind  of  Versailles  : 
every  one  standing  up  as  we  enter:  Her  Majesty  very 
pale  and  tall  and  wonderful  in  a  blue  velvet  robe  and 
pearls.  1  would  adore  her  with  a  passion  as  constant 
as  it  is  respectful.  I  should  ask  in  return  une  amitid la 
plus  tendre.  Isidore,  she  is  an  angel.  The  sweetness 
of  her  soul  is  in  her  face  and  in  the  very  sound  of  her 
voice.  I  am  a  little  too  material  to  be  so  sublime  in 
my  sentiments  as  M.  de  Hausee,  but  I  could  be  un- 
usually faithful  to  that  charming,  beautiful  creature. 
Isn't  there  a  crease  under  my  left  arm  ?  Hold  the  glass 
for  me." 

Isidore  held  the  glass  while  Castrillon,  with  knit 
brows,  studied  the  back  view  of  his  coat. 

"  The   coat   is   perfect,"    said    Isidore ;  "  you   have 


308  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

no  heart  or  you  would  never  find  fault  with  such  a 
back." 

"  Would  you  call  me  heartless  ?  " 

"  I  wouldn't  call  you  anything  else,"  replied  the 
valet,  bluntly. 

"  Then  why  have  you  been  with  me,  cat-fish,  ever 
since  I  was  born  ?  " 

The  Marquis  had  a  stock  of  names  for  his  servant, 
none  of  which  he  employed  unless  he  felt  in  a  good 
humour.  Owl-pig,  hog-mouse,  ape-dog,  rat-weasel, 
and  cat-fish  were  the  highest  expressions  of  his  amia- 
bility toward  the  man  who  had  been  his  ill-tempered, 
dishonest,  impudent,  and  treacherous  attendant  all  the 
years  of  his  life. 

"  You  know,  mule-viper,"  he  continued,  "  that  no 
one  else  would  keep  you  for  five  minutes.  You  are  a 
liar,  a  thief,  and  a  traitor.  Yet  I  endure  you.  I  agree 
that  I  must  be  either  heartless  or  an  idiot  to  put  up 
with  such  a  rogue." 

Isidore  grew  livid,  muttered  blasphemies  under  his 
breath,  and  put  pink  cotton-wool  in  the  toes  of  his 
master's  dancing-shoes.  Castrillon  then  kicked  him 
into  the  adjoining  room  and  resumed  his  gymnastic 
exercises.  At  the  end  of  half  an  hour,  the  man  re- 
entered carrying  a  note  fastidiously  between  his  left 
thumb  and  forefinger. 

"  Is  that  for  me  ?  "  asked  the  Marquis,  who  was  in  the 
act  of  turning  a  double  somersault  with  much  agility. 

"  It  is  for  Monsieur." 

"  Then  read  it  aloud  while  I  stand  on  my  head." 

Isidore  tore  it  open  and  began  to  read  as  follows  : — 

"  Do  not  misjudge  me " 

"  Stop  !  "  exclaimed  Castrillon,  falling  upon  his  feet 

at  once  ;  "  that  is  from  a  woman.     Why  didn't  you  say 

?>» 


ROBERT  ORANGE."  309 

"  It  is  from  Madame  Parflete,"  replied  Isidore. 

"  Impossible  !  "  said  Castrillon,  snatching  it  from  his 
hand  ;  "  impossible  !  " 

He  read  the  letter,  flushed  to  the  roots  of  his  hair, 
and  kicked  Isidore  for  the  second  time. 

"You  beast!"  said  he;  "where  did  you  get  this? 
It  is  her  writing,  but  she  never  wrote  it — never  on 
God's  earth  !     Where  did  you  get  it.?  " 

"  It  was  given  to  me  by  one  of  her  servants." 

"  Why  the  devil  do  you  tell  me  such  lies  ?  "  exclaimed 

the  young  man  in  a  fury  ;  "  it's  some  d d  practical 

joke  in  the  most  infernal  bad  taste,  and,  by  God  !  I 
have  a  mind  to  shoot  you." 

Castrillon  was  not  given  to  the  utterance  of  vain 
threats,  and  his  anger  was  so  great  that  the  wretched 
Isidore,  shaking,  whining,  and  cursing,  edged  round 
the  room  with  his  back  to  the  wall  and  his  eyes  fixed 
on  his  master. 

"Stand  still,  will  you?"  continued  the  Marquis; 
"  I  want  to  hear  a  little  more.  How  much  were  you 
paid  for  giving  me  this  twaddle.     Answer  me  that." 

"  Two  guineas  !  " 

"  Two  ?  I'll  bet  you  had  twenty.  Stand  still,  I  tell 
you,  or  I'll  kick  you  again.  Do  you  expect  me  to 
believe  that  Mrs.  Parflete's  servant  gave  you  twenty 
guineas  ?  " 

"  No,  I  don't,"  answered  Isidore.  "  I  don't  expect 
you  to  believe  anything.  But  if  that  isn't  Madame 
Parflete's  writing,  whose  writing  is  it  ?" 

"  That  is  just  what  I  mean  to  find  out,"  replied 
Castrillon,  "  and  that  is  why  I  won't  shoot  you  till  it 
suits  my  convenience." 

Isidore,  who  had  a  venomous  attachment  to  the 
Marquis,  burst  into  tears.  For  many  generations 
their  respective   ancestors  had  stood  in  the  relation, 


3IO  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

each  to  the  other,  of  tyrant  and  dependent.  Isidore's 
father  had  robbed,  cheated,  deceived,  and  adored 
Castrillon's  father ;  the  fathers  of  these  two  reprobates 
had  observed  the  same  measure  of  whippings  and 
treacheries,  and  so  it  had  been  always  from  the  first 
registered  beginnings  of  the  noble  and  the  slavish 
house.  But  an  Isidore  had  never  been  known  to  leave 
a  Castrillon's  service.  The  hereditary,  easy-going  for- 
bearance, on  the  one  hand,  which  found  killing  less 
tedious  than  a  crude  dismissal,  and  the  hereditary  guilty 
conscience,  on  the  other,  which  had  to  recognise  the 
justice  of  punishment,  kept  the  connection  rudely  loyal. 

"  I  detest  you,"  said  Castrillon  ;  "  I  hate  the  sight  of 

>> 
you. 

Isidore  blubbered  aloud,  and  accepted  the  informa- 
tion as  a  turn  for  the  better  in  the  tide  of  his  master's 
wrath. 

"  Who  gave  you  that  letter  ?  " 

"  Well,  if  you  must  know,  it  was  Signor  Mudara." 

"  Mudara?  Then  Mudara  wrote  it.  I'll  wring  his 
neck." 

"  I'll  wring  his  neck,  too — if  he  has  tried  any  of  his 
games  on  me,"  sobbed  Isidore.  "  But  it  may  not  be  a 
game.     You  are  always  so  hasty." 

Castrillon  read  the  letter  through  once  more. 

"  I  can't  believe  that  she  wrote  it,"  he  said.  "  I'll 
swear  she  didn't." 

"  And  why  ?  " 

"  Because  the  style  is  not  in  keeping  with  her  char- 
acter, blockhead  !  She  does  not  ask  me — or  any  one 
else — to  visit  her  at  two  o'clock  in  the  morning." 

A  revolting  smile  made  the  valet's  loose-hanging, 
sullen  lips  quiver  with  emotion. 

"  No,  that  is  not  Madame's  style.  She  is  too  clever. 
But  does  that  effect  the  opportunity !" 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  311 

"  What  opportunity  ?  " 

"You  have  the  letter.  It  is  for  Madame  herself  to 
deny  the  handwriting — not  you.  Why  should  you,  of 
all  people,  think  it  a  joke  ?  Why  not  act  upon  it  ? 
Why  not  ask  her  what  it  means.?" 

"  At  two  in  the  morning  ?  I  have  no  wish  to  com- 
promise Madame — not  the  least.  She  is  too  rich  to 
compromise.  She  is  the  sort  of  lady  one  marries. 
Tell  Mudara,  with  my  compliments,  he  must  understand 
gentlemen  before  he  can  play  successful  tricks  upon 
them." 

"  I  will  take  my  oath  that  I  am  not  sure  it  is  a  trick," 
answered  Isidore. 

Castrillon  studied  the  letter  for  a  third  time. 

"  Here  and  there,"  he  said,  "  it  has  the  ring  of  her 
voice,  and  the  words  are  the  words  she  uses." 

"  With  such  a  justification  in  my  pocket,  I  know 
what  I  should  do,"  mumbled  Isidore. 

**  So  do  I.  But  you  are  the  scum  of  the  earth,  and 
what  you  would,  or  wouldn't  do,  could  only  interest 
the  hangman." 

The  Marquise  locked  the  note  in  his  dressing-case,  and 
handed  his  keys,  with  his  usual  simplicity,  to  Isidore. 

"  I  do  not  propose  to  tire  myself  with  this  nonsense 
before  the  play,"  said  he.  "  Get  my  raw  eggs  and 
milk." 

At  nine  o'clock  that  evening  a  brilliant  company 
were  gathered  in  the  Salle  de  Com^die.  Most  of  the 
Foreign  Ambassadors,  and  about  fifty  illustrious  per- 
sonages of  great  social  importance,  were  present. 
Prince  d'Alchingen  had  resolved  that  the  daughter  of 
Henriette  Duboc  should  have  every  opportunity  of 
making  a  successful  d^biit  in  England.  He  had 
sprinkled  most  judiciously  among  his  guests  a  few  ac- 


312  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

credited  experts  in  various  departments  of  knowledge, 
and  these  he  hoped  would  lead  appreciation  into  the 
right  channel  by  exclaiming,  at  fit  intervals,  just  why 
Mrs.  Parflete  was  beautiful  and  just  where  her  art  had 
its  especial  distinction.  The  play  itself — La  Seconde 
Surprise  de  V Amour — by  Pierre  de  Marivaux,  was  quite 
unknown  to  the  audience.  Brigit  and  Castrillon  had 
appeared  in  it  at  Madrid,  and  descriptions  of  their  suc- 
cess were  whispered  through  the  room.  The  story  of 
her  birth,  her  unhappy  marriage,  her  adventures  in 
Spain,  and  her  relations  with  De  Hauseehad  quickened 
curiosity  to  the  highest  pitch.  Was  she  really  so 
young  ?  was  she  really  so  pretty  ?  was  she  going  on 
the  public  stage,  or  would  she  remain  an  accomplished, 
semi-royal  amateur?  No  one  referred  openly  to  the 
late  Archduke  Charles,  but  the  facts  that  Madame 
Duboc  had  been  his  Canonical  wife,  that  Mrs.  Parflete 
was  the  one  child  of  their  union,  kept  the  whole  aristo- 
cratic assembly  thrilled  with  the  sense  of  taking  part 
in  something  as  distinguished  as  a  Court  function,  as 
exciting  as  a  Court  scandal,  and  as  bewildering  as  a 
Court  conspiracy.  A  string  orchestra — conducted  by- 
Strauss  himself — played  French  melodies  of  the  eight- 
eenth century.  Would  there  be  any  dancing  ?  would 
she  sing  ?  Henriette  Duboc  had  been  compared,  as  a 
dancer,  to  La  Guimard,  said  Sir  Piers  Harding  to  the 
Duchess  of  Lossett.  And  who  was  La  Guimard  ? 
asked  the  Duchess.  And  was  Mrs.  Parflete  at  all  like 
her  mother?  And  did  she  bear  the  extraordinary  re- 
semblance, of  tv] lick  so  vnich  had  been  made,  to  Marie 
Antoinette?  Sir  Piers  felt  bound  to  own  that  the  like- 
ness was  remarkable.  And  this  De  Haus6e — what  of 
him  ?  Had  Sir  Piers  seen  the  odd  announcement,  about 
his  name  and  antecedents,  in  the  Times  ?  The  Duchess 
didn't  know  what  to  think.     It  was  all  so  very  odd,  but 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  313 

most  interesting,  of  course.  Was  M.  de  Haus6e,  by 
any  chance,  in  the  audience?  No.  Well,  perhaps  it 
was  better  taste  on  his  part  to  keep  away.  The  bell 
rang.  All  eyes  turned  toward  the  blue  satin  curtains  ; 
they  moved :  the  lights  were  lowered  ;  the  violins 
played  a  languorous  air  :  with  a  rustle — not  unlike  that 
caused  by  the  movement  of  wings — the  curtains  were 
drawn  back  and  disclosed  an  empty  garden.  Then, 
folloAving  the  stage  direction,  the  Marquise  entered 
"  tristeinent  sur  la  scenes  The  entrance  was  made 
quietly,  and,  for  a  breathless  second,  no  one  realised 
that  the  heroine  of  the  evening  had  at  last  appeared. 
Her  Grace  of  Lossett  began  to  fear  she  felt  a  little 
disappointed  when,  in  the  nick  of  time,  a  great  poet 
who  sat  near  her,  murmured,  "  Divine." 

But  at  this  point  we  may  quote  from  the  Memoirs 
of  Lady  Julia  Babington  : — 

Mrs.  Parfletc's  persojtal  appearance  caused  an  im- 
mediate furore.  Many  disagreed  abotit  her  claims  to 
perfect  beauty,  btit  these  hostile  feelings  did  not  last 
longer  than  five  minutes.  She  was  an  extremely  pretty 
zvoman  ;  rather  tall  for  her  slight  proportions,  but  ele- 
gant to  a  surprising  degree.  The  extraordinary  charm 
of  her  acting,  her  voice,  her  cojintenance,  and  Jier  accent 
zvere  delightful.  It  zvould  have  been  impossible  to  dis- 
play more  grace,  simplicity,  and  ingcnnousness  than  she 
did :  she  gave  several  touches  of  pathos  in  a  manner  to 
make  one  cry,  and  to  quite  enchant  all  who  had  taste 
enough  aiid  mind  to  appreciate  her  i7iimitable  talent. 

And  again  in  the  Letters  of  Charlotte,  Lady 
Pardwicke,  we  read  : — 

If  Mrs.  Parfietc  can  be  called  handsome,  it  is  certainly 


314  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

a  figure  de  fantasie.  She  has  a  clear  complexion,  is 
young,  tall ;  her  mamiers  are  doucereuses,  for,  besides 
being  a  beauty,  she  has  pretensions,  I  2inderstand,  to 
bel-esprit.  TJie  majority  of  those  present  were  unde- 
niably captivated  by  her  peculiar  fascination. 

Augustus  Barfield  has  the  following  remarks  in  his 
famous  Journal : — 

There  were  no  tivo  opinions  about  the  success  of  the 
debutante.  We  had  been  led  to  expect  a  good  deal,  but 
fortunately  every  description  proved  inaccurate,  so,  while 
she  utterly  failed  to  realise  any  single  preconceived  idea, 
she  had  the  great  advantage  of  appearing  as  some  one 
wholly  neiv.  Rumour  had  prepared  me  equally  for  a  St. 
Elizabeth,  a  Mademoiselle  Mars,  a  Marie-Antoinette,  a 
Re'camier,  or  a  Sophie  Arnould.  She  resembled  none 
of  these  ladies — being  far  more  tragic  in  her  ttature 
than  the  rather  sensual  Queen  of  France,  and  she  is 
clearly  an  uncommon  individual  in  her  oivii  right.  The 
zvomen  will  squabble  about  her  looks  ;  the  men  will  have 
viezvs  about  her  figure  :  all  must  agree  that  her  fortujie 
on  the  stage  is  assured.  A  more  pleasing  performance 
I  never  saw.  Love,  innocence,  tenderness,  grief,  joy, 
petulance,  uncertainty,  modesty,  despair — every  feminine 
attribute,  in  fact,  shoived  to  admiration  in  her  expressive 
features.  Voice,  bezvitching.  Gestures,  exquisite.  All, 
in  fact,  was  truly  enjoyable.  I  would  not  have  missed 
the  evening  on  any  account. 

Orange,  it  is  true,  had  not  joined  the  general  com- 
pany. But  Prince  d'Alchingen  for  reasons  of  his  own, 
however,  had  offered  the  young  man  a  seat  in  the  one 
small  box  which  had  a  gilded  grille  before  it,  and  was 
so  made  that  it  seemed  part  of  the  wall. 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  315 

"  You  cannot  be  seen,"  said  the  Prince  ;  "  I  won't 
tell  her  that  you  are  present ;  and  I  give  you  my  word 
of  honour  that  I  won't  tell  anybody — not  even  my 
wife." 

The  temptation  was  irresistible.  Robert  accepted 
the  invitation,  and  as  he  watched  the  play,  it  seemed 
to  him  that  he  had  never  known  Brigit  till  that  eve- 
ning. He  had  seen  her  in  dreams — yes ;  and  talked  to 
her  in  dreams,  yes ;  but  now  at  last  she  lived — a  real 
creature.  Lost  in  the  part,  she  was  able  to  throw 
aside  the  self-restraint  which  had  given  her  always  a 
cold,  almost  sexless  quality.  Her  face  betrayed  a  hun- 
dred changing  emotions ;  the  youth,  strength,  and  pas- 
sion so  severely  repressed  in  her  own  life  came  out, 
though  still  controlled,  with  full  and  perfect  harmony 
in  her  art.  It  was  one  of  those  consummate  revelations 
of  temperament  which  never  come  in  some  silent  or  in- 
active lives  till  the  last  hours  before  death — when  in 
one  look  or  one  utterance  all  the  time  lost  and  all  the 
long-concealed  feelings  take  their  reparation  from  ex- 
istence. But  with  those  who  may  express  their  true 
characters  through  the  medium  of  some  creative  fac- 
ulty, the  illuminated  moment  comes  at  a  psychic  crisis 
— not  to  enforce  the  irony  of  death  but  to  demonstrate 
and  intensify  the  richness  of  humanity.  The  knowl- 
edge which  depends  upon  suffering,  and,  in  a  way, 
springs  from  it,  is  good,  yet  it  must  always  be  incom- 
plete. Happiness  has  its  light  also,  and  in  order  to 
get  the  right  ..xplanation  of  any  soul,  or  to  understand 
the  eternal  meaning  of  any  situation,  one  must  have 
had  at  least  a  few  glad  hours,  felt  the  ecstasy  of 
thoughtless  joy,  drifted  a  little  while  with  the  rushing, 
unhindered  tide.  As  Robert,  behind  the  grille,  watched 
the  animated,  beautiful  girl  who  seemed  to  typify  the 
very  springtime  of  the  world,  he  felt  he  had  peered  too 


3i6  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

long  at  love  and  life  through  bars.  He  would  have  to 
break  them,  get  on  the  other  side,  and  join  in  the  daz- 
zling action.  How  unreal  and  far-away  seemed  all 
grief,  remorse,  or  anxiety  from  that  brilliant  scene ! 
Brigit  was  laughing,  singing,  dancing — fulfilling,  surely 
enough,  her  real  vocation.  What !  at  seventeen,  was 
she  to  sit  pale,  silent,  tearful,  and  alone?  At  his  age, 
was  he  to  look  on — with  a  dead  heart  and  unseeing 
eyes,  murmuring  words  of  tame  submission  to  a  con- 
temptuous Fate?  His  whole  nature  rose  up  in  revolt, 
and  the  self  he  had  once  abdicated  rushed  back  to  him, 
howling  out  taunts  which  were  not  the  less  bitter  be- 
cause they  were  false.  Not  pausing  to  wonder  whether 
the  present  were  a  profanation  of  the  past,  or  the  past 
an  insipid  forecast  of  the  present,  he  was  conscious 
only  that  a  change — perhaps  a  terrible  change — had 
taken  place  in  his  mind — a  change  so  sudden  and  so 
violent  that  it  had  paralysed  every  power  of  analysis 
and  reflection.  Imaginative  love — made  up  of  renunci- 
ation and  spirituality,  gave  way  to  the  fierce  desire  to 
live,  to  silence  the  intolerable  wisdom  of  the  conscience, 
and  learn  folly  for  a  space.  He  was  madly  jealous  of 
Castrillon,  who  gazed  into  Brigit's  eyes  and  uttered 
his  lines  with  the  most  touching  air  of  passionate 
devotion.  She  seemed  to  respond,  and,  in  fact, 
their  joint  performance  had  that  delicate,  irresistible 
abandon — apparently  unconscious  and  unpremeditated 
— which  is  only  possible  between  two  players  who  are 
not  in  love  with  each  other.  Where  there  is  actual 
feeling,  there  is  always  a  certain  awkardness  and  want 
of  conviction  (partly  caused  by  the  inadequacy  of 
the  diagram  in  comparison  with  the  reality),  and 
the  charm,  so  far  as  art  is  concerned,  is  wholly  lost. 
An  acted  love  was  the  only  love  possible  between 
Brigit  and  Castrillon ;  hence  its  sincerity  on  the  stage, 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  317 

where,  as  a  merely  assumed  thing,  it  harmonised  per- 
fectly with  its  artificial  surroundings — the  canvas 
landscape,  the  painted  trees,  the  mechanical  birds,  and 
the  sunlight  produced  by  tricks  of  gauze  and  gas.  But 
Orange  did  not  stop  to  consider  this.  It  was  enough 
and  too  much  to  see  his  "  sad  spirit  of  the  elfin  race  '' 
completely  transformed.  Was  this  the  child-like,  im- 
mature being  of  their  strange  visit  to  Miraflores? 
That  whole  episode  seemed  a  kind  of  phantasy — a 
Midsummer  Night's  music — nothing  more,  perhaps 
something  less.  The  very  title  of  the  play — The 
Second  Surprise  of  Love — carried  a  mocking  significance. 
Sometimes  the  soul  speaks  first,  sometimes  the  senses 
first  influence  a  life,  but  the  turn,  soon  or  late,  must 
inevitably  come  for  each,  and  the  man  or  woman, 
sick  of  materialism,  who  begins  to  suspect  that  the 
unseen  world  and  its  beauty  is  an  inheritance  more 
lasting  and  more  to  be  desired  than  all  the  vindictive 
joys  of  this  prison-house,  has  no  such  bitterness  as  the 
idealist  who  finds  himself  brought  into  thrilling  touch 
with  the  physical  loveliness,  the  actual  enchantment, 
the  undeniable  delight  of  certain  things  in  life.  The 
questions,  "  What  have  I  missed  ?  What  have  I  lost  ? 
What  birthright  have  I  renounced  7 "  are  bound  to 
make  themselves  heard.  They  beat  upon  the  heart  like 
hail  upon  the  sand — and  fall  buried  in  the  scars  they 
cause.  Things  of  the  flesh  may  and  do  become  dead 
sea  fruit ;  but  things  of  the  spirit  often  become  stale  and 
meaningless  also.  What  is  more  weary  than  a  tired 
mind?  What  joys  and  labours  are  more  exhausting 
than  those  of  the  intellect,  and  the  intellect  only  ?  Does 
an  idle  week  in  summer  ever  beget  more  lassitude  or 
such  disgust  of  life  as  a  month — alone  with  books — in 
a  library?  Dissatisfaction  and  satiety,  melancholy 
and   fatigue  show   as  plainly  in  the  pages  of  aKempis 


\ 


3i8  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

as  they  do  in  Schopenhauer,  as  they  do  in  Lucretius, 
as  they  do  in  St.  Bernard,  as  they  do  in  Montaigne, 
in  Marcus  Aurelius,  in  Dante,  in  St.  Teresa.  They 
are,  indeed,  the  ever-recurrent  cries  in  human  feeling, 
the  ever-recurrent  phases  in  human  thought.  Unin- 
terrupted contentment  was  never  yet  found  in  any 
calHng  or  state  ;  the  saints  were  haggard  with  com- 
bats ;  sleep,  the  most  reposeful  state  we  know,  has  its 
fearful  sorrows,  hideous  terrors,  pursuing  uncertainties. 
Robert's  spirit,  stimulated  by  jealousy,  played  round 
these  reflections,  common  enough  at  all  times,  but,  as 
all  common  things,  overwhelming  at  the  first  moment 
of  their  complete  realisation.  The  original  frame  of 
his  mind  joined  a  defiance  of  formal  precedent  and  an 
intense  openness  to  every  fine  pleasure  of  sense  with 
an  impatience  of  all  that  makes  for  secrecy  and  an 
abhorrence  of  the  substitutes  which  are  sometimes 
basely,  sometimes  madly,  accepted  in  default  of  true 
objects.  He  could  not  desire  the  star  and  find  solace 
in  the  glow-worm — pursue  Isolde  and  lag  by  the  way 
with  Moll  Flanders.  It  was  true  that  he  had  resolved 
to  put  stars  and  Isolde  alike  from  his  life.  It  was  true 
that  he  had  bound  himself  to  certain  fair  ambitions 
beyond  the  determinations  of  calculation  and  ex- 
perience. It  was  true  that  he  had  resolved  to  sacrifice 
this  world  to  the  next.  He  knew  the  claims  which 
the  world  to  come  has  upon  us.  But  did  he  know 
the  world  he  was  renouncing?  How  that  doubt 
opened  the  way  to  further  doubts  !  Was  he  a  fool 
for  his  pains  ?  Was  an  enfeebling  and  afflicting  of 
the  natural  man  so  necessary  to  the  exaltation  of  the 
soul?  Was  the  soul  in  itself  so  weak  that  it  could 
only  rest  decently  in  a  sick  body?  Could  it  only 
wish  for  something  greater  than  this  earth  can  give  by 
being  artificially  saddened  ? 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  319 

Such  questions  have  their  answers,  but  they  do  not 
occur  very  readily  to  young  men  hopelessly  in  love 
and  half  out  of  their  wits  with  jealousy.  He  might 
have  taken  refuge  in  prayer,  but  at  that  moment  he 
did  not  want  to  pray.  He  wanted  to  think  about 
himself,  to  be  himself  throughout  the  entire  reach  of 
his  consciousness,  to  lose  himself  in  the  tempest  of 
emotion  which  seemed  to  drive  out,  beat,  and  shatter 
every  hindrance  to  its  furious  sweep.  A  smouldering 
fire  is  for  a  while  got  under,  and  yet  by  suppression  is 
but  thrown  in,  to  spread  more  widely  and  deeply  than 
before.  So  his  fatal  affection,  perhaps  pitilessly 
fought  down  in  the  first  instance — asserted  its  power 
— its  power  for  evil.  Not  to  love  was  not  to  live.  He 
was  dead  while  he  lived.  He  could  not  find  peace  in 
an  invisible  world  of  which  he  did  not  see  any  more 
even  a  shadow  round  about  him.  Shall  not  the  day  of 
the  Lord  be  darkness  atid  not  light  ?  even  very  dark,  and 
no  brightness  in  it?  He  did  not  believe  that.  What 
miserable  scruples  to  torment,  blind,  and  pollute  the 
soul !  Pascal  has  written  that  there  are  thousands 
who  sin  without  regret,  who  sin  with  gladness,  who 
feel  no  warning  and  no  interior  desire  not  to  sin. 
They  doubted,  hated,  loved,  acted,  felt,  and  thought 
just  as  they  pleased.  Perhaps  they  were  not  happy, 
but  if  they  received  the  punishment  of  wrong-doing, 
the  wrong  at  least  was  committed  out  of  fetters  and 
joyously.  It  is  not  until  men  find  themselves  assailed 
by  a  strong  wish  that  they  perceive  how  very  still  and 
very  small,  all  but  inaudible,  the  still,  small  voice 
can  be.  A  moment  comes  when  one  ceases  to  think 
— one  wills,  and  if  one  is  able  and  the  will  is  suffi- 
ciently determined,  the  purpose  is  carried  into  effect. 
Temptations  to  steal,  to  lie,  to  deceive,  to  gamble,  to 
excess  in  drink  and  the  like  cannot  approach    a  certain 


320  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

order  of  mind.  But  the  craving  for  knowledge  and  a 
fuller  life— either  in  a  spiritual  or  the  human  way — 
is  implanted  ineradicably  in  every  soul,  and  while  it 
may  rest  inert  and  seem  nullified  in  a  kind  of  apathy, 
the  craving  is  there — to  be  aroused  surely  enough  at 
some  dangerous  hour.  And  of  all  the  dangerous 
hours  in  life,  the  hour  of  disappointed  love  is  the  most 
critical.  Calm  spectators  of  mortal  folly  who  have  been 
satisfactorily  married  for  twenty  years  and  more,  who 
have  sons  to  provide  for  and  daughters  to  establish, 
cherish  a  disdain  of  love-stories  and  boast  that  they 
have  no  patience  with  morbidity.  Love — which  put 
them  into  being  and  keeps  the  earth  in  existence — 
seems  to  all  such  a  silly  malady  peculiar  to  the  senti- 
mental in  early  youth.  So  they  put  the  First  Cause — 
in  one  of  its  many  manifestations — in  the  waste-paper 
basket,  asking  each  other  what  will  become  of  Charles 
if  he  cannot  find  a  rich  wife,  and  poor  Alice,  if  she 
cannot  entrap  a  suitable  husband.  But  there  are  others 
who  look  on  life  with  some  hope  of  understanding  it 
truly — in  part,  at  any  rate,  and  these  know,  perhaps 
by  experience,  perhaps  by  sympathy,  that  whereas 
bodily  disturbances  may  pass  away  leaving  little  or  no 
effect  upon  the  general  health,  all  mental  tumults  are 
perpetual  in  their  consequences,  they  never  die  out 
entirely,  and  revive,  sometimes  with  appalling  energy, 
sometimes  with  gnawing  listlessness,  to  the  end  of  an 
existence.  Robert,  in  the  judgment  of  his  intellect 
and  his  senses,  had  found  his  ideal.  Brigit  did  not 
belong  to  the  despised  day  of  small  things ;  she  was 
the  woman  of  his  imagination — the  well-beloved,  and 
having  gained  her,  was  he  to  say  Farewell?  It  seemed 
so.  Meanwhile,  the  graceful,  swaying  dialogue  rippled 
between  the  players  on  the  stage  ;  the  smiling  audience, 
hushed   with  interest,  gazed  at  the  delightful   beings 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  321 

before  them ;  the  exquisite  Marquise  had  uttered  her 
two  last  speeches — 

*'■  Je  ne  croyois pas  VamitU  si  dangereusej''* 

and— • 

**  Je  ne  me  mile  plus  de  rien  !  " 

Lubin  brought  the  performance  to  an  end  by  the 
final  utterance — 

"  Allans  de  lajoie!  " 

The  curtain  fell — to  rise  again  a  dozen  times. 
Orange  did  not  hear  the  door  of  the  box  being  opened. 
Prince  d'Alchingen  came  in  and  put  a  hand  on  the 
young  man's  shoulder. 

"Would  you  like  to  see  her?"  he  whispered.  "I 
can  arrange  it.     No  one  need  know." 

But  the  training  of  a  lifetime  and  constant  habits  of 
thought  were  stronger  still  than  any  mood. 

"  No,"  said    Robert,  shortly,  "  I    won't   see   her.    I 

must  get  back  to  London  at  once." 
ax 


322  ROBERT  ORANGE. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

The  Prince  looked  at  him  in  astonishment. 

"You  can't  get  to  London  to-night,"  said  he, 
"  there  are  no  trains." 

"  I  can  walk," 

"  It  is  thirty-five  miles." 

"  I  am  accustomed  to  long  walks.' 

"  At  any  rate  you  will  have  some  supper  first — in 
my  little  breakfast-room.  Don't  refuse,  because  I  want 
you  to  meet  Castrillon." 

"  Castrillon  !     I  should  like  to  meet  Castrillon." 

"  Then  I  will  tell  him.  You  and  he  can  take  supper 
together.  He  doesn't  want  to  join  the  big  party.  He 
has  the  artist's  detestation  of  the  chattering  mob.  How 
well  he  plays  !     And  what  a  triumph  for— Madame !" 

"A  great  triumph." 

"This  corridor  leads  to  my  tiny  cupboard — the 
merest  cupboard  !  Follow  me."  They  went  through 
several  doors  and  up  several  small  staircases  till  they 
reached  a  small  apartment  furnished  in  old  blue  dam- 
ask, heavily  fringed  with  tarnished  gold  and  silver 
decorations. 

"  A  few  souvenirs  of  my  hereditary  castle  in  Alberia," 
explained  the  Prince ;  "  they  relieve  my  sense  of 
exile." 

He  walked  across  the  floor  and  tapped  on  what  ap- 
peared to  be  a  portion  of  the  wall. 

"  We  are  here,"  said  he. 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  323 

The  secret  door  was  opened,  and  Castrillon,  still 
wearing  his  costume  as  the  Chevalier,  joined  them.  If 
one  may  believe  Prince  d'Alchingen's  account  of  this 
unfortunate  meeting,  the  young  men  greeted  each 
other  with  composure.  D'Alchingen  declares  that  he 
studied  Orange  to  the  depths  of  his  soul,  and  he  does 
him  the  justice  to  say  that  he  did  not  make  a  movement 
or  utter  a  word  which  denoted  the  least  emotion. 
There  was  not  any  sort  of  alteration  in  his  countenance, 
and  he  led  the  conversation  with  a  tranquillity  and  a 
gaiety  really  enchanting.  When  the  supper  was  served. 
His  Excellency  had  no  hesitation  in  leaving  the  rivals 
together — so  convinced  was  he  that  they  would  remain 
on  good  terms. 

"  M.  de  Castrillon,"  said  Orange,  when  the  Prince 
had  gone,  "  I  cannot  sit  down  at  supper  with  you.  We 
have  to  settle  an  old  score." 

Castrillon  bowed. 

"  I  am  here  to  learn  your  wishes.  I  have  heard  from 
several  sources  that  you  wished  to  see  me.  If  you 
have  anything  to  say,  pray  say  it  quickly,  because — I 
have  an  appointment  with  Mrs.  Parflete." 

"  Will  you  do  me  the  favour  to  leave  that  lady's  name 
out  of  the  discussion  ?  " 

"  I  see  no  reason  why  I  should  do  you  favours,  M. 
de  Hausee.  But  I  am  quite  ready  to  atone  for  my  in- 
difference by  any  course  of  action  which  could  satisfy 
the  most  scrupulous  delicacy." 

"  There  is  but  one  course  of  action  open  to  us." 

"  I  shall  be  happy  to  have  the  honour  of  meeting 
you  on  your  own  terms.  But,"  he  added,  con- 
temptuously, "  we  are  both  wasting  our  time  over  a 
worthless  woman.  She  was  seen  leaving  your  lodgings 
on  Wednesday  last.  I  have  just  heard  this.  And  I 
received,  before  the  play  began  this  evening,  a  letter 


324  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

from  her  fixing  a  rendezvous  for  two  o'clock.  If  you 
doubt  me  I  can  show  you  the  letter.  I  am  as  much  dis- 
appointed as  you  are.  She  has  fooled  us  both.  Before 
God  I  could  have  sworn  she  was  a  religious  and  modest 
woman." 

His  chagrin  was  so  genuine  that  it  was  impossible 
to  doubt  his  good  faith. 

"  It  is  a  lie,"  said  Orange ;  "  she  was  never  at  my 
lodgings." 

"  I  don't  call  you  a  liar,  M.  de  Haus^e,  but  I  can 
prove  my  words,  whereas  it  might  be  difficult  to  prove 
yours.     I  can  show  you  the  letter." 

"  She  never  wrote  it." 

Castrillon  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  table,  and  poured 
out  some  wine. 

"That  is  what  I  said,"  he  replied,  "  when  I  read  it. 
So  long  as  we  are  going  to  fight,  let  it  be  because  we 
hate  each  other,  and  not  because  we  have  both  been 
deceived  by  the  same  prude." 

"In  other  words,"  said  Orange,  quietly,  "you  wish 
to  drive  a  good  bargain,  knowing  that  whether  you 
utter  one  insult  or  twenty,  I  can  but  fight  you 
once," 

"  A  Voutrance,  however,"  answered  Castrillon,  dipping 
a  biscuit  into  the  glass. 

"  Yes,  h  Voutrancey 

"This  being  the  case,  let  me  tell  you  a  few  of  my 
ideas.  You  find  life  very  hard.  I  find  it  altogether 
amusing.  I  don't  love  a  woman  the  less  when  I  cease 
to  honour  her.  I  don't  honour  a  man  the  less  when  I 
detest  him.  If  you  should  kill  me,  M.  de  Haus^e,  it 
will  be  the  most  respectable  occurrence  in  my  immor- 
tality. But  if  I  should  kill  you,  it  will  be  the  vile  con- 
clusion of  an  exemplary  career." 

"  Your  conversation  is  most  entertaining,  Monsieur. 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  32$ 

I  am,  unhappily,  in  no  mood  to  listen  to  it.  May  I 
ask  you  to  meet  me  to-morrow  with  your  second  at 
three  o'clock  at  Calais  ?  We  can  then  go  on  to  Dun- 
kerque  and  settle  this  difference." 

"  I  am  perfectly  agreeable." 

They  arranged  a  few  more  details  and  parted.  The 
interview,  which  took  place  in  French,  is  not  easily 
reproduced  in  English.  Orange  wrote  one  account  of 
the  scene,  and  Castrillon  confided  another  to  Prince 
d'Alchingen,  and  the  above  is  probably  as  near  as 
possible  a  faithful  description  of  what  actually  passed. 

Robert  left  Hadley  Lodge,  and  plunged  through  the 
darkness  toward  London.  He  reached  Vigo  Street 
about  five  o'clock  in  the  morning.  It  was  Sunday,  and 
the  streets  were  silent.  He  let  himself  into  the  house 
with  a  latch-key,  and  groped  his  way  up  the  creaking 
unlit  staircase.  On  entering  his  room,  the  draught 
between  the  open  window  and  the  door  set  all  his  papers 
whirling  from  his  writing  table,  and,  by  a  strange 
accident,  dislodged  his  crucifix  from  its  nail.  It  fell  to 
the  ground,  and  when  he  picked  it  up,  the  small  Figure 
was  broken.  This  accident  seemed  an  ill  omen,  but  he 
put  it  from  his  thoughts  and  scrawled  a  hasty  letter  to 
Charles  Aumerle,  asking  him  to  be  his  second.  This 
he  delivered  himself  at  Aumerle's  chambers  in  St. 
James's  Place,  saying  that  he  would  call  for  an  answer  at 
seven.  But  Aumerle,  ever  fond  of  adventures,  was  at 
Vigo  Street  at  half-past  six. 

"  If  you  are  bent  upon  it,"  said  he,  "  I  will  do  every- 
thing in  my  power  to  see  it  through.  I  think  you  are 
quite  right.     Every  one  will  say  the  same." 

The  two  left  for  Calais  by  the  first  boat  that  morning. 
Castrillon,  and  Isidore,  and  a  young  Frenchman,  M.  de 
Lamoignon  were  on  board  also.  At  Calais  the  two 
seconds  conferred,  and  the  duel  was  arranged  to  take 


326  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

place  in  a  field  near  Dunkerque  on  the  following  morn- 
ing. On  the  following  morning  the  four  men  met. 
The  combatants  were  placed  at  fifteen  paces  from  each 
other.  They  fired  simultaneously  and  Castrillon  fell — 
mortally  wounded. 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  337 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

Brigit  returned  on  Monday  to  Pens^e  at  Curzon 
Street.  It  was  the  anniversary  of  Lord  Fitz  Rewes' 
death.  The  two  women  went  to  Catesby,  where  they 
visited  his  grave  together,  prayed  together,  and,  in  the 
quiet  evening,  sat  by  the  hbrary  fire. 

"  This  is  a  great  contrast  for  you  after  all  the  excite- 
ment on  Saturday  night."  said  Pensee.  "  You  are  full 
of  surprises,  Brigit.  Few  young  girls,  having  made 
such  a  brilliant  success,  would  care  to  spend  their  time 
with  poor,  dull  women  like  me.  They  would  naturally 
wish  to  enjoy  the  triumph." 

Brigit's  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"  I  know  what  you  mean,  cJier  camr''  she  answered, 
"  but  there  are  no  triumphs  for  any  artist.  We  suffer 
and  we  work — sometimes  we  are  able  to  please.  But 
we  suffer  and  work  because  we  must ;  whereas  we  please 
by  the  merest  accident." 

"  That  is  true,  no  doubt.  One  might  as  well  speak 
of  a  successful  saint  as  a  successful  artist.  Every  saint 
is  not  canonised,  and  every  artist  is  not  praised.  But 
surely  appreciation  is  a  help." 

"  Yes,  dearest  ;  and  I  am  grateful  for  it.  And  it 
gives  encouragement  to  one's  friends." 

"  Let  us  suppose  that  they  had  not  cared  for  your 
acting,  dear  child.     What  then  ?  " 

"  I  should  have  known  that  it  was  my  vocation  just 
the  same.     Don't  believe  that  I  shan't  have  my  full 


328  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

share  of  doubts  and  struggles.  This  little  first  step 
makes  me  the  more  anxious  about  my  next." 

The  older  woman  looked  at  her  and  sighed  deeply. 

"You  are  too  young  to  know  life  so  well!  I  am 
sure  you  have  suffered  more  severely  than  any  of  us — 
who  say  more  and  cry  more.  Your  face  has  changed  a 
good  deal  in  the  last  day  or  two.  In  one  way,  it  isn't 
so  pretty  as  it  was." 

"  No  one  can  look  quite  so  plain  as  I  can  look, 
Pens^e,"  she  answered  laughing. 

"  Let  me  finish  what  I  had  in  my  mind  !  You  are 
not  so  pretty — not  so  much  like  a  picture.  But  when 
I  see  you  now,  I  don't  think  about  your  features  at  all. 
They  no  longer  matter.  I  watch  your  expressions — 
they  suggest  the  whole  world  to  me — all  the  things  I 
have  thought  and  felt.  Rachel's  face  is  like  that.  I 
am  sure  now  you  were  meant  to  be  an  actress.  I  have 
been  very  stupid.  How  I  wish  I  understood  you  better, 
and  could  be  more  of  a  friend.  I  don't  understand 
Robert  entirely.     Do  you  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  understand  him." 

"  I  wonder  how  you  came  to  love  each  other.  I 
suppose  it  happened  for  the  best.  But  it  seems  such  a 
pity  " — she  paused  and  then  repeated  the  words — "  it 
seems  such  a  pity  that  all  doesn't  come  right — in  the 
old-fashioned  way." 

"  It  has  come  right,  dear,"  said  Brigit  ;  "  perfectly 
right." 

"You  try  to  think  so." 

"  I  know  it.  His  father  sinned,  and  my  father  sinned. 
We  were  born  for  unhappiness.  Unhappiness  and 
miseries  are  in  our  very  blood." 

"  But  how  unjust !  " 

"  No,  dearest,  on  the  contrary,  it  is  strict  justice. 
The  laws  of  the  universe  are  immutable.     You  might 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  329 

as  well  ask  that  fire  should  only  burn  sometimes — 
that  it  may  be  water,  or  air,  or  earth  to  suit  sentimental 
occasions." 

"  I  don't  like  to  see  you  so  sensible — it's — it's 
unlikely" 

Brigit  smiled  at  the  word — a  favourite  one  with  Pens^e 
when  persons  and  events  differed  from  the  serene,  un- 
reasoned fiction  which  she  called  her  experience. 

"How  can  you  call  anything  unlikely?"  asked  the 
girl.  "  I  ought  never  to  have  been  born  at  all,  and 
Life  has  made  no  provision  for  me.  She  is  boisterous 
and  homely — like  a  housekeeper  at  an  inn.  She  doesn't 
know  me,  and  she  has  prepared  no  room  for  me.  But 
I  may  rest  on  the  staircase — that's  under  shelter  at 
least." 

"  What  whimsical  ideas,  darling  !  " 

"  Ah,  to  feel  as  I  feel,  you  must  have  had  my  parents. 
You  mustn't  suppose  that  I  woke  up  one  morning  and 
saw  the  reason  for  all  my  troubles.  The  reason  did  not 
come  as  though  it  were  the  sun  shining  into  the  room.. 
Oh,  no  !  I  found  no  answer  for  a  long,  long  time. 
But  I  feel  it  now.  My  father  could  not  take  me  into 
his  world,  and  my  rhother's  world — I  could  not  take. 
They  wished  to  know  that  I  was  protected,  so  they 
found  some  one  who  knew  the  story,  and  knew  both 
worlds.  I  was  grateful,  because  I  didn't  understand. 
And  when  I  understood  I  was  still  grateful,  but  I 
couldn't  accept  the  terms.  My  marriage  was  not  so 
terrible  as  many  marriages.  Yet  it  was  terrible  enough. 
Don't  let  us  talk  of  it,  Pens^e.  It  is  hopeless  to  quarrel 
with  logic.     Science  is  calm — as  calm  as  the  hills." 

"  And  Robert  ?  "  said  the  older  woman.  "  What 
about  Robert  ?  " 

•'  His  father  was  a  Dominican.  The  Church  will 
have  her  own  again.     Be  quite  sure  of  that !  " 


330  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

"  '  Thy  justice  is  like  the  great  mountains. 
Thy  judgments  are  a  great  deep" 

In  God's  way,  all  will  come  right.  Every  debt  must 
be  paid." 

Although  they  had  arranged  to  journey  back  to 
London  the  following  day,  the  woods  and  gardens 
looked  so  fair,  the  peace  of  that  house  was  so  great,  that 
they  lingered  there  till  Wednesday.  Brigit  was  un- 
usually silent.  She  sat  for  hours  at  the  library  window 
looking  across  the  Channel  towards  France,  her  coun- 
tenance drawn  and  white,  all  its  loveliness  departed. 

Once  she  spoke. 

**  I  know  that  Robert  is  in  sorrow." 

"  Are  you  anxious  ?  Shall  I  write?"  asked  Pensee, 
secretly  troubled  also. 

"  No,  I  am  not  anxious.  There  is  sorrow,  but  I  am 
not  anxious." 

Her  room  adjoined  Pense^'s,  and,  in  the  night, 
Pensee,  sleepless,  heard  her  walking  to  and  fro,  with 
even  steps,  till  sunrise.  When  they  met  in  the  morn- 
ing Brigit  seemed  to  have  aged  by  ten  years.  Her 
youth  returned,  but  the  character  of  her  face  had  altered 
for  ever.  She  was  never  called  pretty  again.  It  was 
said  that  she  varied  and  depended  wholly  on  her  moods. 
She  could  make  herself  anything,  but  nature  had  given 
her  little  more  than  a  pair  of  eyes,  and  nose,  and  a 
mouth — indifferent  good.  Lady  Fitz  Rewes  was  ap- 
palled at  the  transformation.  Remembering  stories  of 
the  dreadful  last  touches  of  consumption,  she  feared  for 
the  girl's  health.  "  She  will  die  before  long,"  she 
thought.  But  death  can  occur  more  than  once  in  one 
life.  The  passing  away  of  every  strong  emotion  means 
a  burial  and  a  grave,  a  change,  and  a  resurrection.  The 
tearful,  dusty,  fiery,  airy  process  must  be  endured 
seventy  times  seven  and  more,  and  more  again — from 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  331 

everlasting  to  everlasting.  And  the  cause  is  nothing, 
the  motives  are  nothing,  the  great,  great  affliction  and 
the  child's  little  woe  pass  alike  through  the  Process — 
for  the  Process  belongs  to  the  eternal  law,  whereas  the 
rest  is  of  the  heart's  capacity. 

The  way  to  the  city — through  the  beautiful  south  of 
England,  beautiful  at  all  seasons  of  the  year  and  sad 
also  at  all  seasons — brought  something  which  resembled 
calm  to  both  their  minds.  Dwellings  closely  packed 
together  destroy,  or  disturb,  the  grandeur,  sternness, 
and  depth  of  life. 

At  Catesby  the  solitude  and  the  waves  exercised  their 
power  over  the  spirit,  diverting  it  from  trivial  spec- 
ulations to  awe  and  wonder.  There,  where  the  unseen 
could  move  freely  and  the  invisible  manifest  itself  on 
the  perpetual  rocks,  the  towering  trees,  the  still  green 
fields,  and  the  vast  acres  of  the  sea,  one  could  hear  the 
dreaming  prophet  proclaim  the  burden  of  the  Lord ; 
and  the  voice  of  mirth  and  the  voice  of  gladness,  the 
voice  of  the  bridegroom  and  the  voice  of  the  bride,  the 
sound  of  the  mill-stones  and  the  light  of  the  candle 
mattered  not.  But  the  kingdom  of  all  the  worlds — 
the  worlds  and  habitations  not  made  with  hands — rose 
up  as  the  real  theatre  of  man's  destiny  and  the  fit  meas- 
ure of  his  achievements.  It  is  that  sense  of  the  eternity 
of  consequences — and  that  sense  only — which  can  sat- 
isfy the  human  heart.  Time  is  too  short,  this  planet  is 
too  small,  and  this  mortal  body  is  too  weak  for  the 
surging  thoughts,  the  unintelligible  desires  of  the  soul. 
Nothing  less  than  infinity  can  hallow  emotions :  their 
passingness — which  seems  the  rule  in  the  fever  and 
turmoil  of  city  life — is  not  their  abatement  but  their 
degradation.  Change  they  must,  but  perish  utterly 
they  may  not.  The  women  travellers  then,  as  the  lights 
of  the  capital  grew  more  numerous,  and  the  roar  of  the 


332  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

traffic  louder  and  more  constant,  drew  more  within 
themselves,  assuming,  unconsciously,  the  outward  bear- 
ing— fatigued,  sceptical,  and  self-distrustful — of  the 
town-bred. 

When  they  reached  Curzon  Street,  the  two  heaps  of 
letters,  the  telegrams  and  cards  on  the  hall-table  sym- 
bolised crudely  enough  the  practical  side  of  daily  affairs. 
One  name — an  unknown  one — among  the  many  en- 
graved on  the  white  scraps  caught  Brigit's  attention  at 
once: 

The  Rev.  J.  M.  Foster. 

"  That  gentleman  is  a  priest,  Madam,"  said  the  but- 
ler ;  "  he  will  call  again  this  evening.  I  told  him  that 
we  expected  you  and  her  Ladyship  about  seven." 

For  some  reason  she  felt  alarmed.  All  that  day  and 
the  night  before  she  had  been  agitated  by  an  inexplica- 
ble dread  of  strange  tidings.  She  went  to  her  room, 
but,  without  removing  her  travelling  cloak  or  her  hat, 
she  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  her  bed,  waiting  for  some 
summons.  Presently  it  came.  Father  Foster  was  in 
the  library  with  Lady  Fitz  Rewes.  Would  Mrs.  Par- 
flete  see  him?  She  went  down,  and  Pens^e  stood 
watching  for  her  at  the  open  door. 

"  My  poor  child  !  "  she  said,  with  a  sob  in  her  voice ; 
and  she  drew  Brigit  into  the  room.  "  My  poor  child," 
she  repeated,  "  Father  Foster  has  come  to  tell  us  that 
— that  Mr.  Parflete  died  last  night." 

The  priest  stepped  forward  with  the  decision,  and 
also  the  stern  kindness,  of  those  accustomed  to  break 
hard  messages. 

"  He  was  injured  in  a  quarrel,  and  died  from  the 
effect  of  the  wound.  He  declined  to  give  any  particu- 
lars of  the  affair,  and  I  fear  we  must  call  it  a  mystery. 
He  asked  me  to  say  that   his  last  words  to  you  were 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  333 

these:  Amate  da  cin  male  aveste — Love  those  from 
whom  ye  have  had  evil." 

He  looked  at  her  compassionately  as  he  spoke,  won- 
dering, no  doubt,  how  great  the  evil  had  been. 

"  Can  I  go  to  him  ?  "  asked  Brigit ;  "  where  is  he  ?  " 

"  Where  he  died — in  his  room  at  the  hotel." 

"  I  will  go  with  you,"  said  Pens^e.  She  held  Brigit's 
hand,  and  exchanged  a  long  glance  with  Father  Foster. 

"  Did  you  say,"  she  asked,  "that  he  left  any  letters 
or  papers  ?  " 

"  He  destroyed  all  his  papers,  but  he  has  left  one 
letter  addressed  to  you.  He  wished  me  to  say,  in  the 
presence  of  Mrs.  Parflete,  that  this  had  reference  to 
some  false  report  about  her  visiting  Mr.  Orange's  lodg- 
ings. Mr.  Parflete  saw  the  lady  who  went  to  Vigo 
Street,  and  he  did  not  know  who  she  was.  One  thing, 
however,  he  did  know :  he  had  never  seen  her  before." 

Brigit  inclined  her  head,  but  remained  motionless, 
where  she  first  halted  when  she  entered  the  room. 

"  Did  he  die  in  pain  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  am  afraid  he  suffered  greatly." 

"  Was  his  mind  at  peace  ?  " 

"  I  believe  so — from  my  heart." 

"  He  had  less  to  fear  from  God  than  man." 

"  The  justice  of  God  is  severe,"  said  the  priest,  "but 
He  can  never  make  mistakes.  The  hardest  cruelties  in 
this  life  are  the  mistakes  which  we  commit  in  judging 
others — perhaps  in  judging  ourselves." 

"  The  carriage  is  at  the  door,"  whispered  Pens^e, 
touching  Brigit's  arm.     "  Shall  we  go  ?  " 

Nothing  was  said  during  the  drive  to  the  hotel  near 
Covent  Garden.  Brigit  sat  with  closed  eyes  and  folded 
hands  while  Lady  Fitz  Rewes,  in  thought,  stared  out 
of  the  window.     At  last  the  horses  stopped. 

"  This  is  the  place,"  said  Father  Foster. 


334  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

A  large  gas-lamp  hung  over  the  entrance,  and  two 
Swiss  waiters,  with  forced  solemnity,  ushered  the  party 
through  the  hall  and  up  the  staircase.  They  tapped  at 
a  door,  listened,  from  force  of  habit,  for  an  answer 
which  never  came,  and  then  turned  the  handle.  Par- 
flete's  bed  had  been  moved  to  the  centre  of  the  room. 
There  was  a  table  covered  with  a  white  cloth,  on  which 
four  candles  burnt.  By  the  window  there  was  a  chair 
littered  with  illustrated  newspapers. 

"The  nurse  has  just  gone  down  to  his  supper,"  ex- 
plained one  of  the  waiters,  "  but  le  mart  est  bien  con- 
V  enabled 

The  dead  man  had  been  dressed  in  a  rose-silk  shirt 
embroidered  with  forget-me-nots.  Upon  his  crossed 
arms  lay  a  small  ivory  crucifix.  In  place  of  his  wig  he 
wore  a  black  velvet  skull-cap.  The  face  was  yellow  : 
the  features  seemed  set  in  a  defiant,  ironical  smile. 
Hardship,  terror,  remorse,  and  physical  agony  had  left 
their  terrible  scars  upon  his  countenance. 

Brigit,  overcome  at  the  sight  of  these  awful  changes, 
fell  weeping  on  Pensee's  shoulder. 

"  Thank  God  !  "  she  whispered,  "  he  has  no  more  to 
fear  from  men." 

When  she  grew  calmer,  she  knelt  down  by  the 
body,  and  told  them  that  she  would  watch  there  that 
night. 

"  Madness !  "  exclaimed  Lady  Fitz  Rewes. 

"  No,  no  !     I  wish  to  do  it." 

The  priest  stated  a  few  objections,  but  she  remained 
firm  in  her  resolve. 

"  He  was  my  father's  friend,"  she  said,  quietly. 

They  both  noticed  that  she  never  once  referred  to 
Parflete  as  her  husband. 

"  If  you  stay,  Brigit,  I  too  will  stay,"  said  Pensde. 

"  That,  dearest,  you  must  decide  for  yourself.     In 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  335 

any  case,  I  cannot  leave  him.  Tell  the  nurse  not  to 
come  back.  And  let  me  be  alone  here  for  a  little 
while." 

Lady  Fitz  Rewes  and  Father  Foster  went  downstairs 
to  the  coffee-room,  and  made  a  pretence  of  eating 
dinner.  The  two  talked  about  the  deplorable  mar- 
riage, the  Orange  affair,  Brigit's  talents. 

"  One  doesn't  like  to  say  it,"  observed  Pens^e,  "  but 
this  death  seems  providential.  If  she  marries  Orange, 
she  will  give  up  the  stage.  Poor  child  !  At  last  it 
really  looks  as  though  she  might  be  happy — like  other 
people." 

"  Like  other  people,"  repeated  the  priest,  mechani- 
cally. 

"  I  must  send  word  to  my  housekeeper  that  I  intend 
to  remain  here  all  night.  And  I  should  like  our  let- 
ters— I  had  no  time  to  look  at  them." 

A  messenger  was  despatched,  and  they  resumed 
their  former  conversation. 

"  I  am  afraid,"  said  Pens6e,  "  that  poor  Mr.  Parflete 
was  dreadfully  wicked." 

The  priest  sighed,  and  made  some  remarks  about 
the  dead  man's  intellectual  brilliancy  : 

"  He  had  great  learning." 

"  Tell  me.  Father,  with  all  your  experience,  do  you 
understand  life?"  asked  Pensee,  abruptly.  "Let  me 
take  refuge  in  a  quotation- — 

"  '■Justice  divine 
Mends  not  her  slowest  pace  for  prayers  or  cries.'  " 

**  I  can  understand  that  at  least,"  answered  the 
priest. 

"  How  odd  that  you  should  speak  of  justice.  Brigit 
was  talking  in  the  same  strain  only  yesterday.  It's 
a  gloomy  strain — for  a  young  girl." 


336  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

"  I  don't  think  so.  One  shouldn't  sentimentalise. 
Life  goes  on,  it  doesn't  stop ;  it's  a  constant  develop, 
ment.     I  haven't  much  patience  with " 

He  stopped  short. 

"  Pray  finish  the  sentence." 

"  Well,  I  haven't  much  patience  with  those  who 
want  to  linger,  and  look  back,  and  cheat  time.  One 
must  get  along." 

Pens^e  felt  annoyed,  and  began  to  talk  coldly  about 
the  housing  of  the  poor,  and  winters  which  she  had 
spent  in  Florence. 

"  Here  are  your  letters,"  exclaimed  her  companion 
suddenly. 

She  turned  them  over  with  languid  interest,  mur- 
muring unconsciously  to  herself  the  names  of  her  cor- 
respondents. 

*'  From  dear  Ethel.  Why  is  she  in  Edinburgh  ?  I 
hope  her  father  isn't  ill  again.  Alice.  Uncle.  Mrs. 
Lanark.  Mary  Butler.  Prince  d'Alchingen.  That 
tiresome  Miss  Bates.  Mr.  Seward."  She  paused  and 
flushed  deeply.     "  Robert." 

Then  she  turned  to  Father  Foster  with  shining 
eyes. 

"  This  letter,"  said  she,  "  is  from  Mr.  Orange. 
Don't  you  admire  his  handwriting?" 

"A  beautiful  hand,  certainly." 

"  I  wonder  what  he  has  to  say,  and  why  he  is 
abroad.     Isn't  that  a  foreign  stamp?" 

"  The  post-mark  is  Paris." 

"  So  it  is.     Will  you  excuse  me  if  I  read  it?" 

She  broke  the  seal,  and  read  the  contents,  while 
every  vestige  of  colour  left  her  face. 

"  I  can't  make  it  out,"  she  said ;  "  there  must  be 
another  letter  for  Brigit.     Will  you  look?" 

He  untied  the  packet,  and  recognised  presently 
Orange's  handwriting  on  an  envelope. 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  337 

"You  seem  rather  displeased,"  said  Pens^e ;  "you 
think  this  is  all  very  strange.  It — it  isn't  a  common 
case." 

"  No  case  is  common." 

"  Well,  you  must  help  me  to  decide  whether  I  ought 
to  give  her  this  letter  at  once.  I  can't  take  so  much 
responsibility." 

"  Neither  can  I.  She  is  a  perfectly  free  woman 
now,  at  any  rate." 

He  did  not  approve  of  the  situation,  and  he  made 
no  attempt  to  conceal  his  feelings.  His  face  became 
set.  Pens^e  thought  she  detected  a  certain  reprimand 
in  the  very  tone  of  his  voice. 

"  It  isn't  a  common  case,"  she  repeated  again. 
"  He  says  he  is  on  his  way  to  Rome — to  the  Jesuits — 
if  they  will  take  him.  If  he  knew — what  has  happened 
— he  might  change  his  mind." 

*'  What !  you  would  have  him  turn  back?  " 

"Oh,  don't  be  so  hard." 

"  I  am  not  hard,"  he  added  more  gently.  "  But 
would  this  woman,  if  she  really  loved  him,  wish  him 
to  turn  back  ?  And  if  there  is  anything  in  him,  could 
he  ever  be  happy  in  any  stopping  short  of  the  fullest 
renunciation — once  resolved  on  that  renunciation?" 

"  Ah,  don't  put  it  that  way  to  her.  She  has  had  so 
much  trouble  already." 

"  I  shan't  interfere.  Take  her  the  letter  by  all  means. 
She  must  decide  for  herself." 

Pens^e  rose  from  the  table,  and  went  up  the  stairs 
to  the  room  where  Brigit  still  knelt  by  Parflete's  dead 
body. 

"  Dearest,"  said   Lady   Fitz   Rewes,   "  I  think    you 

ought    to    read    this    letter.     I     have   had    one    also. 

Robert  thinks  of  taking  a  great  step,  and  perhaps " 

Her  glance  met  Brigit's. 
22 


338  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

"  No,"  said  Brigit,  under  her  breath  :  "  no." 

Then,  with  trembling  hands,  she  read  the  letter  once, 
twice,  three  times. 

"  Say  something,"  said  Pens^e,  touching  her.  "  Say 
something,  Brigit." 

She  smiled  and  held  the  letter  to  the  candle  flame. 
It  caught  fire  and  burnt  away  quickly  while  she  held  it. 

"  Mind  your  hand — it  will  catch  your  hand." 

"  I  don't  feel  it,"  said  Brigit.  She  bore  the  scar  of 
that  burn  always. 

"  Say  something,"  implored  Pens^e. 

"  He  is  on  his  way  to  Rome.  He  asks  me  not  to 
write  to  him.  Castrillon  is  dying.  They  fought  a 
duel." 

"  But  of  course  you  will  write — now.  You  must 
write." 

"  Hasn't  my  love  done  harm  enough  already  ?  I  will 
never  see  him  again.     I  shall  never  write  to  him  again." 

"  You  can't  mean  that.  You  can't  realise  what  you 
are  saying.  People  will  like  him  all  the  better  for 
fighting  Castrillon." 

"  Oh,  it  isn't  the  duel,  Pens^e.  He  sees  his  way 
clearly.  He  has  always  tried  not  to  see  it.  I,  too, 
have  tried  not  to  see  it.     But  all  that  is  at  an  end  now." 

"  And  he  will  renounce  his  career." 

"  Everything !     Everything  ! " 

Pens^e  threw  up  her  hands,  and  left  the  room. 
Father  Foster  was  standing  under  a  gas-jet  at  the  end 
of  the  corridor  reading  his  office.  He  looked  at  Lady 
Fitz  Rewes. 

"  She  won't  stand  in  his  way?"  he  asked  quietly. 

"  She  won't  stand  in  his  way,"  she  answered.  "  I 
hope  you  realise  what  that  means — to  her." 

"  I  hope  I  can  realise  what  it  means  to  both  of 
them,"  said  he. 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  339 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

In  1879,  a  distinguished  author  who  was  engaged  in 
writing  a  history  of  the  CathoHc  Movement  in  England, 
begged  Mr.  Disraeli,  then  Earl  of  Beaconsfield,  for 
some  particulars,  not  generally  known,  of  Robert 
Orange's  life. 

He  replied  as  follows : — 

"  HUGHENDEN  MaNOR,  Nov.  28,  1 8/9. 
"  My  dear  F., — You  ask  me  for  an  estimate  of 
Monsignor  Orange.  Questions  are  always  easy.  Let 
me  offer  you  facts  in  return.  The  Castrillon  duel  was  a 
nine  days'  wonder — much  discussed  and  soon  forgotten. 
Castrillon  left  a  letter  with  his  second,  M.  de  Lamoi- 
gnon,  to  the  effect  that  he  had  offered  Orange  '  intoler- 
able  insults  *  which  *  no  man  of  honour '  could  have 
suffered.  Mrs.  Parflete's  name  did  not  transpire,  but 
Prince  d'Alchingen  and  others  gave  speculation  no 
industry  on  the  matter.  We  were  at  no  loss  to  know 
the  real  cause  of  the  quarrel.  Orange  applied  for  the 
Chiltern  Hundreds  and  went  into  strict  retreat  for  six 
months.  During  that  time  he  saw  no  friends,  wrote  no 
letters,  read  none.  I  remember  his  conduct  was  severely 
criticised,  because  the  death  of  Parflete  opened  out 
other  possibilities  of  action.  He  was  not  a  man,  how- 
ever, whom  one  could  order  to  be  this,  that,  or  the 
other ;  still  less  could  one  reproach  him  for  not  being 
this,  that,  or  the  other.  It  was  his  faith  to  believe  that 
salvation  rests  on  the  negation  and  renunciation  of  per- 


340  ROBERT  ORANGE. 

sonality.  He  pushed  this  to  the  complete  suppression 
of  his  Will,  humanly  considered.  I  need  not  detain 
you  on  the  familiar  dogmas  of  Christianity  with  regard 
to  the  reign  of  nature  and  the  reign  of  grace.  Your 
view  may  be  expressed  thus : — 

"  '  Puis-qu'il  aime  cl  perir,je  consens  guHl pirisse,* 

and  you  will  think  that  Orange  said  of  Mrs.  Parflete,  as 
Polyencte  of  his  wife  : — 

"  *Je  ne  regarde  Pauline 

Que  comme  un  obstacle  i  mon  5ten.* 

This  would  be  an  injustice.  Orange  was,  to  me,  a 
deeply  interesting  character.  I  saw  little  of  him  after 
he  entered  the  priesthood,  but  his  writings,  his  sermons, 
and  the  actual  work  he  accomplished  proved  conclu- 
sively enough  that  he  was  right  in  following — and  we 
were  wrong  in  opposing — his  true  vocation.  Rome 
did  not  smile  at  him  at  first.  A  de  Haus^e,  however 
never  yet  tapped  long  at  any  gate.  The  family — which 
had  been  stirred  to  fury  by  his  father's  trespass — wel- 
comed the  son  as  a  prodigal  manqu^.  His  aunt,  the 
Princess  Varese,  left  him  half  of  her  large  fortune.  He 
lived  himself  in  great  seclusion  and  simplicity,  and  died 
as  you  are  aware,  of  over-work  last  year.  The  one 
friend  he  corresponded  with  and  occasionally  saw  was 
Lady  Fitz  Rewes.  Sarade  Treverell  did  notmarr)'' the 
Duke  of  Marshire,  but  three  years  before  Orange's  death 
she  took  the  veil,  and  is  now  a  Carmelite  nun.  Mrs. 
Parflete  he  never  saw  again  after  the  night  of  her  per- 
formance at  Prince  d'Alchingen's.  Her  career  continues. 
From  time  to  time  a  rumour  reaches  me  that  she  is 
about  to  marry  a  nobleman,  an  author,  her  manager,  or 
an  American  millionaire.  Quite  a  mistake.  She,  too, 
is  a  visionary,  and,  I  should  say,  respectable.     If  you 


ROBERT  ORANGE.  341 

have  not  seen  her  act,  seize  the  first  opportunity.  If 
you  think  of  writing  more  than  the  merest  sketch  of 
Orange's  strange  career,  may  I  suggest  the  following 
motto  from  the  Purgatorio  ? 

••  •  Cast  down  the  seed  of  weeping  and  attend. ' 

"  Yours  very  sincerely,  my  dear  F., 

"  Beaconsfield." 


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